Vengeance Is Mine
by 15elliotta
Summary: A story of a man, Harold Wilston, whose hatred runs deep for the infamous Sherlock Holmes. He will seek his vengeance, slowly, surely, and will watch Sherlock dance until his dreadful death. A story where friendships are broken and unlikely ones formed.
1. The Beginning

**Hey Guys! This will be my only author's note for a long while, and all that I ask of you is to review! I need to know what you think, and for those of you on twitter getting updates, please review here as well. So yeah, that is about it and I hope you enjoy the story! If things get confusing, out of character, all that fun stuff, just let me know and I will fix it! Enjoy!**

* * *

Harold stared down at the grave, _his_ grave. Fury boiled in his blood when he saw the name, the name that made his skin chill with goose bumps. The name of Sherlock Holmes. It stood out upon the black gravestone, somewhat emphasizing his importance. His nemesis, his reason for the pain. Harold's pain. His emptiness. He touched the gravestone, the object dark as midnight, as cold as the grasps of death itself. Memories flooded through Harold's mind of the girl. The only girl that mattered.

_Sherlock Holmes_, he thought to himself, _I think it's time to come out of the shadows. Time to awaken yourself._

"Sherlock Holmes," he said aloud in a sneering voice. "I think it is time to play…"

* * *

Doctor John Watson was still wounded by his friend's presence in front of him. The man that he thought dead, prancing around a crime scene, his fluttering about and his arrogant aura about him never left him after his "death". His fake suicide. It may have been months since the infamous Sherlock Holmes made a stunning appearance at John's favorite restaurant, but the fact that his best friend was still alive could not sink in fully.

While thinking of this, a memory so fierce and persisting played through his mind. Him, John Watson stepping out of the cab hurriedly. His heart beat racing as he thought that Sherlock was in danger. Getting the worst phone call of his entire life. Watching his colleague jump off the roof of Saint Bart's, and plunging to what he thought was his death.

He remembered the funeral vividly. The weather, cloudy but somewhat chilly. He couldn't control his emotions that day. He mourned like any other man would; A drink of scotch to celebrate Sherlock's life and shed a tear or two, grieving his loss.

It felt quite odd to him. He understood the reasoning for Sherlock's faking his suicide. To protect him and the ones that he held most dear. John slightly smirked at that thought. John knew Sherlock would never admit it; admit that he cared about other human beings. But the doctor wasn't as average minded as his best friend thought.

"The body, John." Sherlock said dully. "What do you think of it?"

John slightly sighed as he went over to the body of Mr. James Rogers. "Died of strangulation. The bruises around his neck indicate that a rope was used. Time of death by the feel of his core temperature, I would say was around midnight last night. Molly can tell you more information once we get this body to the morgue."

Sherlock huffed out a breath of air, and went back to making his remarkable deductions, his smart arse remarks to Lestrade, the detective inspector from Scotland Yard, and his daily insulting to Anderson, the forensics officer.

Molly. Molly Hooper. An employee at Saint Bart's Hospital. The girl who did autopsies and made bad jokes. The most amazing liar John Watson had ever seen. She cried at Sherlock's funeral, she pretended to have done an autopsy on him. Molly, the girl that helped Sherlock Holmes fake his own death. John was wounded emotionally from this also, but the two actually had the courage to speak about the issue.

With Sherlock Holmes though, talking to him was like travelling to parallel universe. John was very distracted in his thoughts, that he barely noticed that Sherlock had hailed a cab and where already riding in the vehicle.

"So, this Mister Rogers was in a gang, obviously. His tattoos gave that away. He must have died to tie up loose ends of course, giving the fact of the personal death. Ah, yes the killer must have felt powerful, taking the rope and squeezing the life of our _poor_ victim. Mister Rogers must have turned against his gang, most likely for money, not as likely for love given the fact of his body language when he died. So, with deducing all of this I-"

Puzzled by all of the nonsense talk that Sherlock was saying John felt obliged to interrupt him. "Sherlock… Sherlock would you slow down? You talk like a man who is trying to tell his life story in less than two minutes! What in the world do you mean by 'Body Language'? How in the world can you deduce that he had no lover by _that_?"

Sherlock sighed in disappointment and frustration. "John, oh how I do envy you and your average mind." John rolled his eyes at this. "You see but do not observe the obvious! The way that Rogers was positioned on the floor, the way his mangled body was- Oh never mind John it doesn't matter!" Sherlock stopped and it surprised John.

_No showing off today, that is quite strange for Sherlock_ John thought. _This is surly going to be a weird day_.

"John. John is everything okay? You are more… quiet than usual"

"Yes Sherlock, of course. Why wouldn't I be?" John lied.

"Well given the fact that your hands shifted-"

"Oh Sherlock would you just stop with that deducing! Give me a break!" John snapped quickly.

Sherlock looked out the window, hiding the quick look of hurt on his face. After a few awkward moments, the pair arrived back to the familiar grounds of Baker Street.

Sherlock's phone vibrated, and that is when it began.


	2. The Questioning Text

Sherlock didn't notice his mobile had alerted him of a text until John Watson left for his date with another girlfriend. Sighing at seeing that the number was restricted, he placed his phone down to start one of his experiments; measuring the amount of cell decay in a finger nail after fifteen hours of death. The case of James Rogers was already solved; the case was too painfully obvious.

James Rogers was a gang member of scummy London drug shippers. He stole a batch of cocaine to sell for profit, and got caught. The boss, a man somewhat known to Sherlock ordered his execution. Such a boringly obvious thing that dirty thugs would do, according to Sherlock.

Sherlock's mobile vibrated again on the table, a vibration that sounded dreading and ominous, but so urgent. He picked it up out of frustration and looked at the text.

"Mr. Holmes, oh my, oh my. I have waited patiently for this." The text stated.

"Who is this? SH" Sherlock responded.

"Now what would be the fun in that?"

Sherlock studied this text for a moment, faintly muddled. His pulse rose a little at the thought of something stimulating.

"Hmm let me think. Another idiot fangirl that got my number from my blog. How typical. SH"

After a while with no response, Sherlock placed the phone down, disappointed at the fact that he was probably right. In the evening that same night, the mobile fiercely vibrated once again.

"I find it so _adorable_ that you wish that of me Mr. Holmes. I can promise you two things. For one thing I am not a girl, woman, nor female itself. And secondly, I am _certainly_ not a fan."

Sherlock smiled at this text. Things were starting to stir. He received another text from this mysterious male character.

"Meet me in the place you despise most. I think it is time to encounter you."

"And what place would that be? The supermarket, the Opera House? The roof of Saint Bart's? SH"

"I do have a liking of opera at the moment. Der Oper Halle. At 17:00 tomorrow. HW"

Sherlock's heart raced in anticipation. He tried to control his smiling and it took almost all of him not to shoot up and shake his fists in victory, as John was across from him at the moment reading his daily paper.

Ah yes, John Watson: Sherlock Holmes's best friend, his only friend. His heart almost broke when watching John's emotions when he thought Sherlock was dead from afar. John barely trusted him anymore. He would always look after Sherlock's back, making sure he didn't get into another situation that would actually get him killed. Although John had forgiven him for the most part, Sherlock felt that their relationship had been damaged a bit.

Sherlock thought to himself, _I will have to keep this from him. It is the only choice._


	3. A Meeting of a Mysterious Man

Harold waited at the opera house, somewhat impatient at the lateness of Sherlock Holmes. He looked at his watch again. 5:02 pm. Two minutes late. Harold expected more from this detective. He tapped his fingers on his knees irritably.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes entered the building, a fancy opera house that was a ginormous structure that housed walls of famous extravagant murals and other elaborate things. His feet made a patting sound on the blood red carpeted floor, and he reached the theater doors. He proceeded to open the heavy, thick doors, and stepped through to a room truly eye opening. The stage was in front of his vision, a massive empty stage which looked as if it could fit a world.

He scanned his eyes around the room quickly. About 5,000 seats he deduced, and only one was filled. One off to the left side.

The first thing Sherlock noticed about this particular man was his dark brown hair, very course and disheveled. The next was his clothes; a trendy suit with pinstripes. Finally, the body mass of the man himself. His structure was mildly thick, as if he had the body of a boxer or martial artist. _A man who contradicted himself with appearance. Interesting._

Sherlock took his time walking over to this HW, not to rush to please this man. He stopped behind him and sat down.

"You're late Mr. Holmes. I would have thought you would be eager to meet me. Apparently not." The man said, with his body still facing the stage.

"I am sorry to say that your smoking habits have been haunting you." Sherlock stated.

"Well, that is pretty obvious of you, isn't it? You need to work on your impressing pick-up lines Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock started "Given the fact of your-"

"I know the signs of addiction. Do not insult my intelligence. My fingers tapping peevishly are an obvious sign, and so are the nicotine patches on my arm. You can slightly see the outline of them on my suit. Tell me something I don't know."

Sherlock remained silent for a moment, then another.

"I don't know why… I am here." He finally said lamely.

Even though Sherlock couldn't see it, the man in front of him smirked faintly in victory. "I am here to hire you on a case that I have personally chosen."

"An interesting way for a client to contact me then. You could have just called."

"Ah yes Mr. Holmes, but you see, I am not a client. I am simply a man with a case, wanting you to solve it. And when you do, it will be the _death_ of you."

Sherlock was somewhat confused, but then realized what type of meeting this was. "So, you want me to solve your _pathetic_ little case, in which you probably know what the answer is to it, and then I die."

"It is the outcome of this, yes. And I assure you Mr. Holmes, it is not a 'pathetic' case. Actually, I do believe it is something that might spark your interest."

"Sherlock. You can just call me Sherlock. No need to be formal here anyways, given the fact that you want me to be what I deduce is your enemy."

The man slowly turned around to face the consulting detective behind him. His gray green eyes struck a chord with Sherlock. It was the color of the sea before a great storm.

"I don't want you to be my enemy _Mr. Sherlock Holmes_. You already are my enemy, my nemesis, the man I hate with all my heart." He said in a disgusted matter.

"A man once told me people don't have enemies." Sherlock said with a minor tension in his tone.

"Well, that man knows nothing of the real world; just of a small fairytale he calls reality."

"So, are you going to tell me who you are, or do I have to leave you now. I truly do distaste mystery on both sides of a case."

"All you need to know about me for the time being is my name and the thing that brings us here today. The name is Harold Wilston. And I have a case for you."

Harold stood up, and placed a case file on the chair beside him. "If you don't want to solve the case of your career, then don't. You will disappoint me dearly." Harold stepped into the isle. "And we don't want to do that, now do we _Sherlock_?"

Sherlock remained seated while he watched the figure of Harold Wilston started to pace away. "Do I have a time limit for this then?"

"Why not? You have until the rest of your short, miserable life. So get to it." And with that, the thick figure of Harold Wilston left the theater room of opera house.

Sherlock peered down at the case file in front of him. He debated whether to accept the challenge or not.


	4. The Case of Julianne Walker

Harold stepped out of the opera house, shaking and trembling. His anxiety issues got to him yet again. Sometimes he would get panic attacks for no reason, but this time, he had one. A faint melody of Rachmaninoff played, and his mobile vibrated. Harold hesitantly pulled out his phone and glanced at the number. He declined the call. _I will suffer for it later. I have other things to attend to._ He pulled out his anti-depressant pills and took double the dose in displeasure. He strolled off into the city, back into the horrid reality he dreaded.

* * *

He sat there in the theater, staring at the case. It took him a while to decide whether or not to pick it up. He fought with himself in his rapidly paced mind.

_Should I take it and have the thrill of a lifetime, or do I play it safe for John?_

Sherlock sighed deeply; it was a hard decision. He stood up slowly, dipped down, and grabbed the thick case file.

_I have a feeling I am going to regret this._

He stalked away from the opera house, to head home to his flat on Baker Street. Instead of taking the cab, he walked to clear his mind. He mostly thought of this man named Harold. He thought of the proposition this man gave to him. "_I am simply a man with a case, wanting you to solve it. And when you do, it will be the death of you."_

Simply? This man wasn't "simply". This man, with his intense eyes, screamed dangerous. This Harold, with his slightly intimidating figure and his contradicting appearance was something odd. And it made Sherlock excited beyond all belief.

He was relieved when he reached home and John wasn't there. It would give Sherlock time to look over this case of Harold's and to study it. He sat down on his cool leather couch, placed the file down on the table in front of him, and what he saw inside it was something of interest.

Pictures of a young girl, her body mutilated with bruises and knife stabs. The knife wounds were everywhere. It was somewhat gory, but it was nothing that Sherlock hadn't seen before. The pictures showed the river in the background and the girl was wet. _A passionate murder with several beating marks and stab wounds. Her body was dumped like trash in the river. She must have been alive and bleeding out when her body flowed down this river. How brutal. Poor girl. _

He then began to take out the police reports, "missing girl" fliers, and quickly obtained the information of this young girl. Female, aged fifteen, white, daughter of a businessman and artist, named Julianne Walker. The case went cold. This was two years ago.

The reports also told him of what was on the body when Ms. Walker was killed. Jean pants, black shoes, white t shirt, stained blood red, dark green hoody. No money or ID was found on the body, but a paper note with ruined ink was on it.

After Julianne Walker was missing for a week, it was concluded that this disfigured body was her. The case concurred that she was kidnapped on October 23rd, 2011 and found October 30th.

Sherlock studied all the facts of this murder and girl, her hobbies, who she hung around with. She was a reserved girl with great grades in school. She had a few but good friends in school. No suspects of who would do this. The police figured it was just some deranged drunk that killed her.

_How pitiful. This innocent girl died a horrid death, and it never got resolved. This world is a sick one. _

He barely noticed John when he walked in with the groceries. He almost jumped when John slammed the door.

"Got another case? Need help with it?

"No John, I think I can handle this one. Let the _intellectual _handle this." Sherlock said in a bitter tone.

"I am assuming it's a bad one then?"

"What makes you say that?"

"The passion and the fury in your voice might have given it away." John said lamely. He didn't like when Sherlock snapped at him.

Sherlock ignored the comment, slammed the case file closed, lifted it off the table, and walked to his room. He slammed the door and that was the last John had seen of him that night.

* * *

He looked around, his vision blurred, his heart pumping. BAM! A sound of a gunshot pierced the air around him. He didn't feel the bullet pierce through his abdomen, but the stream of hot liquid coming out of the hole was an obvious sign of his misfortune. He sank on his knees, and watched as the owner of the Glock 23 smiled and walked off. The injured man fell on his sides, bleeding out; his vision darkening. This was it, his end. His fate of death, sneaking upon him at a time that he was not ready for. It was too soon to leave this dreaded Earth. Too soon.

A girl ran up to the wounded man; saw him bleeding on the ground. She softly muttered a curse, immediately got to her knees, and flipped the man on his back. She took off her dark black hoody, and applied pressure to his wound.

"Sir, sir please stay with me! Everything is going to be okay! Please just hang on!" The girl cried, and she removed her mobile from her back pocket, and called what it seemed to be an ambulance.

Harold woke up with a jolt, tears in his eyes and his body was soaked with sweat. Just another nightmare, just another memory haunting him. An echo of the girl's voice rang in his ear; "Please just hang on!" He started to break down into a sob, barely being able to control his emotions. He popped more pills that were on his nightstand, and lay back in bed to rest a restless sleep.

* * *

John sighed as he read the paper. It was early morning, and he had his coffee next to him. John was shocked when Sherlock came out into the living room with his coat and shoes on so early in the morning. Sherlock was going out.

"I am assuming this about the case. Did you need to me to go with you?"

"No John" Sherlock said curtly, and left their flat abruptly.

John sighed again at Sherlock's rude behavior. _Damn that man sometimes_, he thought to himself while shaking his head in disapproval.

Sherlock stepped out into the cold brisk air. It was time to talk to the father of Julianne Walker.


	5. A Plot Full of Twists

Chapter 5: A Case Full of Twists

Sherlock looked at the business address on the case file. The father's work address. Liam Walker was his name, divorced from his wife, Natalie. Their marriage fell apart after the death of their daughter. _Not a surprise, _thought Sherlock, _but the fact that the husband kept his business is somewhat suspicious._ Sherlock hailed a cab.

"8192 Lincoln Street please. And please don't be slow." Sherlock said dully.

"Notta problem." The cabbie stated, and looked at Sherlock though his rear view mirror. "Hey, aren't you that guy from the papers? That detective or whatever? The one that faked his suicide?"

Sherlock sighed quite loudly, and was purely annoyed. "Just drive."

"You got it. Oh and by the way-"

"I don't want to hear about your_ fantastic_ stories about your wife and how she is cheating on you and how you deduced it."

"How did you know about-"

"Just drive already, I haven't got all day!" Sherlock snapped, and the cabbie drove to his destination.

Sherlock tossed the cabbie his money almost in a disgusted manner. The cabbie drove off somewhat angry at the infamous Sherlock Holmes, the man he once thought was a remarkable individual.

The consulting detective looked up at the building. It was five stories, a company called Shredders and Paper. _What a creative name for a shredding company, _Sherlock thought not amused. It was a building of a tannish color, somewhat bland. The glass doors seemed inviting enough, but its bleak look could not look so welcoming. Sherlock grabbed the door handle and stepped inside.

The entrance to the building looked quite expensive, further making Sherlock suspicious of this Liam Walker. _How in the world can a shredding company have such a nice lobby?_ He went to the front desk where a skinny, busty lady sat. He could automatically deduce that she was stressed, married five years, having several affairs with the employees in the office, surprisingly more intelligent than what her job required.

"May I help you sir?" The lady named Theresa asked.

"Yes I would like to talk with one Liam Walker."

"He's not here at the moment Sherlock," said a familiar low voice.

Sherlock turned around immediately to see Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard.

"Lestrade! Why the hell are _you_ here?" Sherlock said somewhat shocked.

"Liam Walker is the reason I am here, and apparently you to. And as I said, he is not here." Lestrade said matter-of-factly.

"Well, where is he? I need to question him."

"He has been reported missing, and I came here to question his colleagues. I thought you came here for the same reason, but apparently not."

Sherlock huffed a breath. This was going to make his day a lot more difficult. He turned on his heels and started to stroll out of the building.

"Wait Sherlock!" Lestrade called out. "Where the bloody hell are you going?"

"I am trying to solve a case, not sit here and have a nice small chat with you."

"What case Sherlock? And why the hell would it involve Liam Walker?" Lestrade said in a commanding tone.

Sherlock and Lestrade exited the building together, and Sherlock hailed another cabbie.

"So you're not going to tell me huh? What is wrong with you Sherlock? Not going to brag about this _amazing_ new case of yours?"

"Start acting professional with your actions _Lestrade_. You have your badge with you and we are in public." Sherlock said in a bored tone, and with that he entered the cab, leaving Lestrade alone and fairly upset.

* * *

Harold stared at the man he had acquired. The fat man looked deathly terrified tied up in the steel chair, constrained with duct tape. He was gaged and humming words to Harold. Harold stood across from the constrained man, and pulled out his mobile.

He texted the man he always hated, the man that was responsible for the girl's death. The only girl that mattered to him.

"Did you think I was going to make it so easy? HW"

A moment passed, then Harold's phone vibrated. He checked the text.

"Is Liam Walker still alive? SH"

"For now…"

"You were right Harold. This case is getting quite interesting. SH"

Harold smirked at the screen. He peered over to Liam Walker. He was a middle aged man, innocent looking, with brown hair in a mopped mess on top of his head. His thick glasses made him look like any average man, but what the rest of humanity didn't know was Liam Walker's greed for money. And that is why he deserved to die. It was a part of his plan. A much greater plan.

Harold Wilston walked over to Liam and mockingly placed a hand on his cheek. He bent down so they were face to face. "Don't worry Liam, I won't make your death too harsh. You are not my main target. You are just target practice."

He stood up, walked behind Liam, aimed his gun towards the man's head, and placed his finger on the trigger. He paused. "Not yet. It is still too soon."

* * *

Sherlock looked at the text. "For now…"

So Liam Walker was still alive, and Harold was the one that kidnapped him. The father must have known something about his daughter's death. This case was getting more twisted. Sherlock headed towards the mother's house. It was time to talk to her.

The cab took Sherlock out of the city, and into the surrounding suburbs. The house was of a small nature, somewhat ordinary and dull in Sherlock's mind. He knocked on the door. There was no answer for some time, until a small woman in her fifties came to answer the door.

"May I- may I help you?" Theresa said quietly, somewhat intimidated by the man in black standing in front of her.

"Yes. Theresa Lowell, ex-wife of Liam Walker, I have some questions for you about Julianne and her untimely death. If I may?" Sherlock said in a soft tone, not wanting to be sent away.

She opened the door more so she could step out. _Oh God here we go. Another sentimental human going to get defensive,_ Sherlock thought to himself.

"I don't need to be interrogated anymore with you and you cops! Have you no pity on my daughter's soul? Can you not leave the case in peace? Can you not just leave me alone!" Theresa snapped, and tears started to fill her eyes.

"I came here so I can solve this case Ms. Lowell. I think your daughter went through too much for this case to go cold. So if you don't _mind_ Ms. Lowell, I want to find her murderer."

She looked up at him in shock, her face contorted. She started to sob uncontrollably, and she went inside, leaving the door open for the man behind me. He walked in and shut the door quietly.

When Theresa got her bearings, Sherlock began to question her. About her life, her friends, her lifestyle. Nothing stood out suspiciously thought until Theresa said one certain phrase.

"She had this teacher. This teacher she really cared about. He really inspired her to do what she thought was right you see. He disappeared into the shadows after she died. I figured that his heart had broken."

"This teacher's name, what was it?" Sherlock asked slightly bored.

"His name was, uh, Rogers I think. James Rogers."

This perked Sherlock's attention immensely, and stood up more quickly than what was intended.

"Thank you Ms. Lowell I have got what I needed from you now." And with that he left the room suddenly. Ms. Lowell was left in a flabbergasted state.

The consulting detective walked down the street with utter confusion. _How did this James Rogers come into play? A teacher turned gang member for shipping drugs?_ This made no sense to him. For once he was stumped. There was a link that was missing. And that link was Harold.

Or was it?


	6. An Interrogation That Ends As Always

Harold sat alone in the brisk, cold, November weather on a single bench in the middle of a park; his park, his domain. He sat, and he thought.

He thought of his plans to destroy Sherlock, different scenarios of how he will kill his foe. As he reflected on Sherlock, he thought of the girl.

Ah yes, the girl. A girl of the young age of fifteen. She had fair dirty blond hair and a kindly smile. Her teeth were slightly crooked in the front, but it added a certain characteristic that Harold appreciated. Her eyes were of a strong nature. They glowed green like the way leaves do when the sunset kisses its golden shine on it. It reminded him of a happy childhood he never had. It warmed his heart.

It was the girl who saved him; the girl that had now left the Earth to a better place, if anyone believed in that sort of thing. Her death, her brutal death, was the one that made his blood boil and seethe uncontrollably. She didn't deserve that. Not her, never her. His savior. The girl that mattered.

"I shall avenge you, my darling girl. I shall seek revenge on those who are responsible for your death, _Julianne Walker_."

* * *

Sherlock stepped into Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade's office, a meeting that he had been dreading. Lestrade was doing paper work himself, and gestured Sherlock to sit down in the seat in front of him. Sherlock ignored it and remained standing. Greg looked up.

"Something I can help you with, Sherlock?" Lestrade said in a flat tone.

"Yes, I need a favor from you."

"Oh God Sherlock, what is it now? What the hell do you want? Asking me for a favor is something I should be deeply concerned about."

Sherlock stared at Lestrade, not amused. "I need information on James Rogers, that case we were working on a few days ago. I would like it as soon as possible… Like now."

Gregory Lestrade had a glint of annoyance and utter anger in his eyes. "Sit down Sherlock."

"But-"

"I said 'sit down Sherlock'. Now!" Lestrade said in a shockingly commanding voice.

Sherlock finally listened to his orders, figuring this would be the only way he could get the information on Rogers.

"After your 'death' Sherlock, we were all scared. When you came back, _nobody_ has talked to you about what happened… Well what happened to us. We went through a lot Sherlock, and where were you? Three years passed by and we-"

"I don't want to talk about this." Sherlock said darkly, and the room seemed like a black cloud hovered in it. "This is not what I want to discuss."

"Then Sherlock, what the hell are you willing to-"

"I am willing to talk about getting that _case file_ from you." Sherlock said coolly.

Greg sighed. "We are never going to get further with this conversation, are we?" He pulled out the file information of Rogers and plopped it down in front of Sherlock. "Go on, you have it. Now get out and leave me alone!"

Sherlock grabbed the case without a moment's hesitation, stood up, and paced to the door. Before he left the office, Greg called to him.

"Sherlock."

He turned to face the officer.

"Sherlock, I hope you know our relationship isn't going to be the same anymore. You have changed, and I think for the worst. Don't bother to ask me for you pathetic favors _anymore_."

And with that, Sherlock left Greg's office, not to return for a long time.

* * *

Harold stared at the fat man in front of him. Liam Walker: The father of the girl that mattered most; the father that was greedy, money hungry; the father that was one of the people responsible for Julianne's death.

He looked sickly; maybe because it was the fear of being killed, the pain of a knife, stabbing through his body multiple times; maybe it was the fact that he didn't have the medication for his diabetes. Whatever it was, Harold was pleased with the suffering condition he was in.

"Liam, I will ask you this once and once only. Who is the man that gave you the money?"

Liam shook his head and under muffled words tried to protest.

"Don't try to deny it Liam. The man that gave you the money. The man that paid you off to keep silent about your daughter's death. Who _is_ he?" His angry tone was starting to slip off his tongue.

Liam once again shook his head feverishly. Harold stood up and pulled out his gun. He grabbed ahold of the side and with a swing of the arm he plowed the butt of his gun into the jaw of Liam Walker. He screamed, muffled by the gag. One of his molars chipped. Harold removed the gag.

"Who _is_ he Liam? Don't make your death a painful one! I will do whatever means necessary!"

The constrained man panted. "I can't. I can't tell you."

"And why is that Liam?" Harold asked impatiently.

"Because- because he will kill Theresa!"

"I can assure you he won't know that you told me. I am good at keeping secrets you know."

"This man. This man, he always knows! He knows everything." Liam almost begged.

Harold sighed. "Okay I get the point so _what's his name_?" He almost screamed.

Liam winced. "His name was James something. Uh, Roberts. No that doesn't sound right."

"Oh for _God sakes_ man, I don't have all day!"

"I-I'm sorry! I just can't concentrate with that gun to my face!"

"Well you better start getting used to it soon, because I am about to shoot you in the kneecap-"

"ROGERS! His name is Rogers! James Rogers!"

Harold almost backed up in complete shock. _The schoolteacher?_ _How could that be possible?_ Harold swallowed and regained his composure.

"Thank you Mr. Liam Walker. That information was quite insightful." Harold raised his gun, and without further ado, he pulled the trigger.

* * *

A man watched Sherlock and John in the accommodations of 221B Baker Street. He snapped many photographs of the two men. On one the couch with his head shoved into a case file, the other making tea in the kitchen. His mobile rang.

"Yes sir?"

"Have you acquired the pictures for the boss yet?"

"Yes, I have sir."

A faint click on the other end went silence, and the line went dead. The man shook his head. He went back to snapping his pictures.

* * *

"Sherlock, did you want some tea?" A shout was heard from the kitchen. There was no response. John peered out into the living room, and saw Sherlock in a concentrated mood. _Possibly going through his stupid mind palace again_, John thought to himself.

To be honest, John was furious at Sherlock. His moody, curt behaviors towards the doctor made him angry and especially with the secrecy behind this "case" he was working on, it drove Watson mad.

What struck something odd to John was the file that Sherlock was looking through at the moment. James Rogers, a case that Sherlock deemed as obvious, simple, but yet Sherlock stared at his case file as if it was written in some ancient language. John walked near him.

"Sherlock, I think it's time we had a talk."

"About what John? As you can tell I am kind of preoccupied at the moment."

"Oh, so what? You want me to leave you a personal voicemail? Make an appointment for your latest convience?" John snapped, furious.

Sherlock looked up puzzled at his flat mate. "Are you… angry at me John?"

"No Sherlock, of course not." He said in a mocking tone. "I. Am. _Furious_. You disappear from the world for three years, you automatically show up, and you don't feel like talking to anyone about what happened? You truly are a machine!"

Sherlock just stared at him dully, with a bored expression.

"You know what Sherlock? This is hopeless. I am going out." And with that, John Watson grabbed his coat, and left the flat.

"Finally, some quiet around here!" Sherlock said in an imitating tone.

But what John Watson didn't know, was that those words exchanged between them broke Sherlock's heart. And those words would make him feel _guilty._ And that those words that John Watson said, Sherlock _knew_ were right, and it would eat him alive on the inside.


	7. A Connection is Discovered

The sunshine of a young morning stirred him awake. The first thing he noticed was the beeping of monitors echoing in his ears. He took a deep breath, which he soon regretted because of a sharp pain in his stomach. He groaned in protest.

"I see you are starting to come around." A girl said with her voice calm, caring, and soothing.

Harold opened his eyes. The brightness of the room caused him to squint his eyes. "Ah, where am I?" He said weakly.

"Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. You were shot, if you don't remember."

"Yeah, I remember all right." Harold opened his eyes fully now, and tried to boost himself up. It failed.

"No no no, don't try to get up! You'll rip the stiches!" The girl said hurriedly. She pushed on his chest lightly, to make him lie down once again.

Harold looked up at this girl. And what he saw surprised him. A young girl, no older than 14. Her green eyes were caring, and they were gorgeous. Her dirty blond hair accented her skin color, making her look quite remarkable.

"How long have I been out? What day is it?" Harold asked in a lame tone.

"It's August 31st, 2010. You've been out for 3 days." The girl said in a matter-of-factly tone.

"What is your name young one?"

She laughed. "Young one? You do not have to be so formal Mr. WIlston. I am Julianne Walker. And I guess I deserve a thank you for saving your arse!" She said in a teasingly tone.

Harold raised an eyebrow. He liked this girl. "Aren't you a little too young to swear."

She smiled. "No one is too young for anything Mr. Wilston. And once, people tell me I am mature for my age."

"Doesn't mean you have to have a foul mouth," he said lightheartedly.

She laughed a genuine laugh. Even after previous events of what had happened to Harold, he felt somewhat happy to be around her. Her aura was very appealing. He just looked at her, until something strange had happened.

She laughed and she laughed, not stopping. Harold became quite concerned. "Uh, Julianne?"

She kept laughing, and then she screamed an ear piercing screech. Everywhere on her body started to bleed, stab wounds ripping through her skin. He looked into her eyes and saw only terror and extreme pain.

Harold woke up with a scream. His head pounded, his pulse raised. It was just a dream. Well, it was a memory that turned out to be a nightmare. His memories of Julianne were haunting him. He took that as a message, to avenge her death. He took more of his pills, his hands shaking with adrenaline. He got up, covered with sweat, and went to the shower. And in the shower he cried, he sobbed until he had no more tears left in him.

* * *

Sherlock stared at the case file in front of him. The time was passing by slowly. He looked at his watch, 3:19 am. He sighed irritably. _Why can't people have the sleeping schedule like I have_, Sherlock thought to himself. He was going to have a talk with James Rogers's brother, Ethan, and the time was not on his side at the moment.

Ethan Rogers, a married man at the age of thirty six, with two young kids. He was James's older brother by two years. He looked a lot like his younger brother, with a thick build, dark black hair, tanned skin, and an attractive face. Sherlock hoped that Ethan would at least give a decent amount of information about James, but he highly doubted that his brother knew of his shady activity.

Time passed, and Sherlock snoozed on the couch. He finally jolted awake, and looked at his watch. 9:32 am. Perfect. He looked around the room. John hadn't come back from last night. Sherlock didn't concern himself about it. He grabbed his jacket and scarf, and headed outside.

The cab dropped Sherlock off at an apartment complex near the Southern edge of London. It was of a larger stature than most London flats. He entered the building, and went to 31B, the Rogers apartment. He knocked on the door annoyed and commanding.

A tall man answered the door. "Oh God, what are you doing here. This is about James, isn't it?"

"So apparently you know me. And yes, I have a few questions for-"

"You can take your questions and shove them up your arse Mr. Sherlock Holmes! I don't want to talk to you."

"I am not here to focus on your brother Ethan. I need to solve a little girl's murder. A murder that was gruesome and that deserves to be solved!" Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"This is about that girl. That Walker girl, isn't it?"

"So your brother and you were quite close then?"

"Uh, yeah, until that girl died. Then he took to the shadows. And apparently joined a gang of some sort. Got himself murdered!"

"May I please come in, Mr. Rogers? This will only take a few moments."

"Fine," said the man next to the door. He opened it so Sherlock could step inside, and closed it.

"So, what was James's relationship to Julianne _exactly_?" Sherlock started.

"I am not so sure, but I knew they were close. She would always meet up with him at a park on Saturdays, and he would tutor her with her writing skills. Right before her death though, he told me they stopped meeting."

"When did these meetings start?"

"The beginning of September, I do believe, in 2010. She needed to talk to him about something truly dreadful."

"That being…?"

"Julianne ran into a situation with a man. This man was shot and she saved his life. She talked to James because of his short schooling in Psychology, and he gave her writing tips on how to deal with it."

"Do you know this man's name perhaps? The man that Julianne saved?"

"No I do not Mr. Holmes. You are going to check out the hospital of Saint Bart's. That's where he was admitted."

"And do you know why Julianne stopped the meetings abruptly before she died?"

"I am sorry Mr. Holmes, I do not."

Sherlock thanked the man for his time. He stalked out of the room. Next destination, Saint Bart's: the place that held a somewhat bad memory.

* * *

Molly Hooper, the pathologist at Saint Bart's, was working on the corpse of James Rogers when Sherlock entered the room. She looked up at him, her heart fluttering a bit.

"Hello Sher-"

"Molly I have a favor to ask you," Sherlock said quickly, cutting her off.

"As long as it doesn't involve jumping off of rooftops and faking peoples' deaths, I don't see why I can't help you."

Sherlock ignored that little comment and continued. "I need a name of a man who was admitted here in late August, early September of 2010."

"Sherlock you know you need a warrant for that. I would ask Lestrade-"

"Lestrade and I aren't really in a good relationship right now Molly. Please?" His face looked sad, almost teary.

Molly sighed. She hated it when Sherlock did that. "Fine, but can I get some more details to make my search easier?"

"One Julianne Walker brought in this individual. She was a young woman, at the time fourteen. That should help. The only other thing I know was that he was shot."

"Let me finish up my work, and I will get the name for you. I will call you tonight."

"Thank you Molly. Really, you are a life saver. Literally." Sherlock came to her and gave her a quick hug. "I will be expecting your call." Sherlock left Molly with her daily work, but not before taking a glance at body of Mr. Rogers.

* * *

His mobile rung later in the evening. Sherlock was in the kitchen, looking down his microscope when a soft tune of Bach filled the room. He answered it, already knowing who it is.

"You owe me Sherlock. The medical files in that time were in paper copy, and no one even thought of making it digital. It took me a while but I found it. The man you speak of was shot in the abdomen with a .35 millimeter bullet, and was found by Julianne Walker. She called the police, and saved his life."

"Can I get his name Molly?" Sherlock was done with the waiting. He wanted to know already.

"His name is Harold Wilston."

"Thank you Molly." And Sherlock hung up on her. He set his phone down and stared at it. _So that is how Harold comes into play… Julianne Walker saved him, she gets killed a year later, and he wants me to find who is responsible for the kill!_

He picked up his mobile again, and sent a text.

* * *

Harold was eating out when he got it. The text from Sherlock.

"So the girl saved you. I am deeply sorry for your loss. SH"

"You don't even know the beginning of 'Sorry' Mr. Holmes. HW"

"So the question is, why do you blame _me_ for her death… SH"

"I think you will find that out soon enough. Finish the case Mr. Holmes. HW"

And with that, Harold placed the mobile back into his pocket, and began to eat his meal again. And he waited. And he planned.


	8. A Lost Man Found

John's head hurt. It pounded, the blood pumping and throbbing in his head. His eyes were closed, and it was pitch black. He started to come around, and slowly opened his eyes. The first thing he noticed was a light in the distance, and then the man that lurked in the shadows. He tried to stand up, but couldn't. He was constrained, bounded to a steel chair. He was in a warehouse.

"Where the hell am I?" John asked the man in the shadows. The mysterious man laughed.

"Welcome to hell Doctor John Watson."

* * *

Sherlock's phone rang after his second meeting with Theresa Lowell. It was about the meetings Julianne had with James Rogers, and about the saving of Harold Wilston. Ms. Lowell knew about the meetings between her daughter and the English teacher. She did not know about the man that Julianne saved.

_How in the world do you hide that from your own mother? She had bloody clothes when she came home. How was this not noticeable? The parents are idiots._

He answered the phone. "Ah Lestrade, did you miss me already?"

"Shut up Sherlock this is important. Liam Walker was found in an alley this morning, shot in the head like a dog. I need you over here."

"Text me the address." Sherlock hung up the phone, and waited for it to vibrate. After a few moments, he received it and headed to the crime scene.

Lestrade stood above the body, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. The body of Liam Walker was laid next to the dumpster in the alleyway, tossed away like trash. He turned when he heard arguing behind him.

"Oh let him in, Officer Daniels, he's with me." The officer stopped bickering with Sherlock, and let him through.

"So that is our missing person Sherlock, found here this morning by a garbage man. Got called here a while ago."

"Hm," was Sherlock's only response and he dropped down to inspect the body of Liam Walker.

"Single gun wound to his head, had diabetes, died quickly, killed somewhere else than transported here." Sherlock wiped his hand on the man's coat. _Sawdust. Brick dust. Construction site._ _Warehouse maybe?_

"Sherlock, what is the case you are working on? I expect some sort of answer from you, since I did have call you here." Lestrade said coolly.

Sherlock sighed and stood up. "I am trying to solve his daughter's death." He pointed at the body. "That is all."

"His _daughter_? You mean Julianne Walker, the case of the brutally murdered girl that was two years ago? How in the world did that end in your lap?"

"It doesn't matter now, all that matters is solving the case. I need to go now Lestrade. Oh, and one more thing; I am sorry." Sherlock turned on his heel, and left the crime scene. Lestrade stood there, mouth agape.

Lestrade and his men took the body, sealed off the crime scene and started to head home. What he didn't notice was a man following him home. A man who owned a camera. A man with a boss.

* * *

John jolted awake with the sound of his mobile vibrating on the table next to him. It was persistent, it was demanding. It wanted to be read, it wanted to be answered. A man from the shadows came to it. The glow of his mobile showed the man's face. A stern face with piercing green gray eyes; the eyes of an oncoming storm. The man smiled. He read aloud.

"John, John where are you? You haven't been to the flat in a couple of days. This is not normal of you. SH"

John looked up at the man, with a fire in his stomach.

"Oh John, I think Sherlock is a little sentimental, isn't he?"

"What am I doing here? Who the hell do you think you are?"

"You are here because of your friend. My enemy. Sherlock Holmes. And you may call me Harold Wilston. There is no point lying about my name."

"Your _enemy_? What the hell did Sherlock do to you?"

"Be patient Doctor Watson, it shall all be revealed on the day it ends." Harold said in a passionate voice that made the hair on John's neck stand erect.

* * *

Sherlock paced the flat, waiting for a response from John. A minute passed, then two. Nothing. If John wouldn't text him in ten minutes, he will call Lestrade. Three more minutes passed. He got impatient, and quickly dialed the Detective Inspectors number. Nothing. No ringing. The line was dead. _What the bloody hell_, Sherlock almost yelled. Where the hell was everyone going?

_Whatever,_ Sherlock thought. It was about bloody time for him to solve this case. It was ripping his friendships apart. So, James Rogers was a part of a gang. Sherlock about thought it was time to talk to the member of it.

The Pythons, the gang was called. A drug shipping gang that was making wealth in London's east east. The drugs, mainly cocaine would be smuggled from America to Britain itself, and the Pythons had a monopoly over the business. They made it big in the world and every cop and organizations were too scared to bring them down. James Rogers, Sherlock presumed, was hired after Julianne's death to make ends meet. He got greedy, stole some drugs, and tried to escape. He succeeded in the escape, if death counted. Sherlock was tired and angry at this case. He wanted it over with. He grabbed his coat once again, flipped up the collar, and strode out.

Meanwhile, a mysterious man with a camera called a number. "Boss, he is on his way."

"Good," replied Harold. "Get the gang ready."


	9. The Meeting of Others

It was the slums that he entered, the slums where the gang sometimes resided. He got this information from his credible confidential informant, a man who once belonged into the Python gang, but left the gang by faking his death. A smart man and Sherlock thought highly of him.

"What do ya want here? It seems you have taken a wrong turn." A voiced said menacingly behind the intelligent detective.

"It appears not so. You must be a rat in this little club of yours. Why 'Pythons'? What a lame name for shipping crew."

The man sneered at Sherlock. "I have no idea what you are talking about! A 'shipping crew'? What the hell is-"

"Don't even bother lying to me," Sherlock said bored. "You look down when you lie, and your voice _cringes."_

The man straightened. He stood in front of Sherlock. "Why in the world are you here, Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock smirked. "Hello Officer Daniels. I came here to solve that case I have been working on. What do you know about James Rogers?"

"How in the world did you recognize me from my-? Oh never mind it's useless. James Rogers, huh? Well I have heard of him once or twice. He was recruited a while back ago. After the death of a girl, Julianne Walker, the girl you are investigating. Asking about James Rogers is useless in my opinion. It's the girl's information that you might want to know."

Sherlock cocked his head at this remark. "How so? How have you heard of her?"

"I just found out today in fact. The boys have been a little loose with the tongue around me lately. They said she dated the leader of the Pythons for a while. Ever since she was fourteen. Quite sick really. Anyways, it is said that she saved a man. A man that the head boss wanted dead. He was angry at her for saving that man, and punished her by constant harassment. I think the boyfriend hired a man to organize this harassment crusade. She tried to leave, tried to escape, and the boss had her killed by the man he hired."

"Are we still talking about the same girl here? Julianne Walker, a young girl, a good and innocent girl? How in the world would she be involved with this? With this gang?" _What was the connection?_

"I have no idea Mr. Holmes," said the man, also deep in thought.

"Have you contacted Lestrade about this?"

"That's the thing Mr. Holmes. I can't reach him. Nobody can. I have no idea where that bloody bastard went!" Daniels sounded worried. And it made Sherlock even more worried.

_John, and now Lestrade? What the hell are they planning? To scare me?_

"Thank you Officer Daniels. You better leave before someone finds out you are talking to me."

"Will do. And Sherlock, good luck."

* * *

"We have Lestrade sir. We shall transport him to the meeting spot when you are ready. I shall wait for your call," said a familiar voice over the phone.

"Lovely. Good work. I will see you then." Harold hung up his mobile, and stared at John Watson.

"_What_?" he said sharply.

"Oh nothing. I am just amused, that all."

"And why is that?"

"Because Sherlock Holmes isn't as intelligent as he thinks." Harold said somewhat pleased, with a slight smirk on his face.

"What does Lestrade have to do with this?"

Harold just looked at him. "Patience Dr. Watson. Patience is key."

* * *

Julianne. Julianne Walker. A girl, a girl who Sherlock thought was innocent, in gang activities. _Is this why Rogers joined the Pythons? To see who killed Julianne?_ This case was much more in depth than Sherlock had imagined, and it had taken a lot more time and effort than planned. He was still missing the pieces. He still had more questions.

And those questions were for the gang leader. Charles Baker. The leader in the scummy operation of drug shipping in London. He was also a coward, just a kid. Age twenty, he was three years older than Julianne. _How in the world did they meet anyways?_

Sherlock Holmes headed to an alleyway where he planned his interrogation. He texted Charles on a burn phone, asking for a business partner with resources plentiful with drugs, weapons, and money. The kid was an idiot, he wasn't really the leader of the Pythons, but just everyone addressed him as so. _How pathetic._

He heard scuffling from the alley's corner. A hunched over man with baggy sweats was walking to him.

"You must be the man seeking business than?"

"Yes, but not in ways that you expect. You see, I am not here for a business transaction, nor a partnership with you and your pitiful little organization you call a gang."

The boy looked up at Sherlock, his eyes blazing.

"You see, I am here on behalf of Julianne Walk-"

At that moment, Charles pulled out a gun. A Walther PPK was pointed a Sherlock in a blink of an eye.

"Easy now Charles. Charles listen to me."

"Shut up!" The kid yelled. "Don't mention her name. The bitch deserved to die!"

"So you killed her then?" This case was becoming more easy than Sherlock had thought. "You killed a girl because she saved a man?"

"I said shut up! Or I will blow you head off!"

The kid had no idea what he was talking about. Sherlock had to keep himself from rolling his eyes.

A man with a camera and a sniper rifle called Harold on his mobile. "Yeah, the boy and Sherlock are in the alleyway. Yes, he has the gun pointed at him. Everything is put into place."

"Good, I am glad." Came a voice from the mobile. "And if the boy even looks as if he is about to kill Sherlock, shoot his arm off. I want him unharmed."

"Understood sir." The man said in a commanding fashion, and hung up the phone. He stared through the scope and watched the scene below him.

"Who did you hire to torment Julianne, Charles?" Sherlock was almost yelling at the boy. "Why did someone want Harold dead? Why? What was the point?"

Charles was in tears. He was breaking up. Charles took deep breathes, and continued to point the gun at Sherlock. "It doesn't matter anymore. That bitch is dead. She is _gone._"

"You murdered an innocent girl!"

"Yeah, so?" Charles started to smile. _This kid is insane_, Sherlock thought to himself. _He definitely could not lead the Pythons._

In the corner of his eye, he saw one big man, and then two, then three. _What the hell?_ Charles started to laugh.

"Sherlock Holmes, stuck in trap. Watch the little detective dance!"

There was no doubt about it now, the kid was insane. Sherlock stared at this maniac of a child, with the gun still pointed at his face. If he turned, he knew the kid would shoot-

A prick was felt on his neck. His vision went hazy, and he fell on his knees. Things blurred around him, even the voices and laughter of Charles Baker. Then everything went black.

"Charles, you can stop acting like a maniac now, he is out." The man that drugged Sherlock kicked his limp body slightly.

"Sorry boss. Just got a little carried away. I always wanted to be an actor you know." Charles explained.

"Finally, we have him at last." A man with a camera and rifle appeared. "Our job is almost done. Get the body in the van. We need to get him to the warehouse, get his to Harold."

"Yes sir," said Charles and the three other men in unison.

* * *

His head bobbed, he started to stir awake. The drugs that were administered to him unwillingly were strong, but the effects were starting to wear off. He still felt drowsy.

"Good evening Mr. Holmes. Glad we can finally talk face to face again. It has been a while."

The detective's eyes shot open. He was constrained against a metal chair. _Obviously._ He was in a warehouse, presumably were Liam Walker was killed. That was confirmed by the bloodstain on the floor near him. _Observation._

"Ah, my beloved Harold. My favorite enemy of the day. What do you want?" He said in a serious tone.

Harold looked at him fuuny. "Sherlock, you almost solved the case. You found out Julianne Walker's harasser and hirer for the man that killed Julianne. Charles Baker, the boyfriend and leader of the Pythons."

All Sherlock could think was, _What?_

"So that's it then. The whole case. How pathetic! How ridiculous! That case was a waste of my time! Certainly not the highlight of my days."

"Except for one thing Sherlock. Yes Charles hired the murderer, but there were others involved. _You_ killed Julianne Walker Sherlock Holmes!"

"How could you think of such a thing! I didn't even know the girl existed until you came along and plopped the case into my lap!"

"How could you do such a thing?! You must be joking! How dare you say that to my face! I know you didn't kill Julianne directly, but you are mainly responsible for her death!"

"HOW? I don't understand! Why do you blame _ME_?!"

"MORIARTY! JAMES MORIARTY!" Harold screamed on the top of his lungs.

Sherlock went quite, then hissed. "_What?_"

"You! You created him! You created a monster, hired an actor!"

"I did no such-"

Harold, in all his anger and frustration, hit Sherlock in the face. He hit Sherlock so hard that the chair lost balance, and he smacked the floor.

"YOU! How dare you say you didn't create Moriarty! You make me sick!" Harold kicked him. "You paid him to become a consulting criminal! Charles Baker hired him to stalk Julianne, find her weaknesses, torment her with things she feared most! THE ONE THAT STABBED HER MULTIPLE TIMES! THE ONE THAT DUMPED HER BODY LIKE A SACK OF GARBAGE IN THE RIVER!" Harold was screaming so loudly that it scared even Sherlock. He winced when Harold kicked him again.

"How can you blame me for that? He was about to kill everyone I loved, destroying everything I stood for." Sherlock whispered in a horrid voice.

Harold opened his mouth to scream more, but was interrupted by a ringtone and vibrating. Harold pulled out his mobile and answered.

"Ahem, yes?" There was a pause. "Good, yes transport them to the location now. Hooper and Hudson are acquired. Good." He looked at Sherlock and hung up his mobile. "Time to play Sherlock."

"Molly, Mrs. Hudson? What is going on? What has happened to them. John, Lestrade? Where are they? What have you _done_?" Sherlock almost panicked.

Harold straightened up his suit, and regained his composure. He looked at Sherlock who was still on the floor. He took a deep breath. "You will find out soon enough. Someone will come here for you. I need to prepare." Harold headed out of the warehouse.

"Please Harold. Please don't hurt them." Sherlock moaned on the floor, and he remained there in the dark, alone, and in panic of what will come.


	10. A Familiar Face Returns

Footsteps echoed throughout the warehouse. The owner of the feet had a slight drag of the left foot. There was only one man that Sherlock knew who had that. A sniper and professional. A man Sherlock had tried to hunt down for years. Sebastian Moran. The man who almost killed John Watson on the dreaded day Sherlock faked his death. And here the hit man was, collecting him.

His face was cold against the pavement. His body ached at the position he was in, for what seemed like hours at least. The man grabbed at the back of his chair, and with one single heave, he set the chair upright. Sherlock looked at the face of the man.

"Your disguise as the cabbie was quite well. If only I took a better look at you then, instead of being distracted, I would have killed you then and there." Sherlock said with a lame tone.

"Yes, it has been a while Mr. Holmes, hasn't it?"

"How is manipulating your employer going? What did you tell him, hmm?"

"Well, you will find that all out anyways, so why don't you just be patient."

"I don't do patient." Sherlock sneered.

The other man laughed. "I guess you will just have to struggle with that little flaw of yours. So this is how it is going to work Mr. Holmes: I am going to unbound you from this chair. If you try to escape, your friends will all die. Understood?" Moran said in a matter-of-factly tone.

"_Perfectly_," Sherlock articulated.

"Wonderful." Moran pulled out a hunters knife, and cut Sherlock's bonds. He then reached for the handcuffs.

"Is that really necessary?"

"Oh yes. Boss's orders"

"You make me laugh. He's not your boss. You don't answer to anyone besides Moriarty."

"That may be true but let's just follow orders. For theatrics of the situation."

The detective sighed and put out his hands. They were cuffed instantaneously. Moran put his hand on the other's shoulder, and lead him out of the filthy, abandoned warehouse. A black van awaited them, along with three other men, including Charles Baker.

"Lovely to see the gang back together again." Said Sherlock smugly.

"Oh shut up, will ya?" Charles Baker snapped, and placed a black hood over Sherlock's head.

* * *

The van stopped, arriving at their destination. Sherlock found no purpose in the fact of the black hood. He knew perfectly where he was. His memorized all of London in three hours, knowing where each and every street was at. He smiled at Harold's pointless precautions. They're location: A site a little ways from London, to the South. An abandoned theater, somewhat small and closed down years back because of lack in business. _Harold does admire old, uninhibited things, especially theaters. That says a lot about his psychology._ Images of Harold's childhood came into play, and he smirked. Bingo.

A man, who Sherlock deduced immediately was Sebastian Moran, grabbed under his armpit to drag him out of the vehicle. The driver stayed inside while the other two men jumped out. Moran handed Sherlock over to the man that was unnamed, and Moran hopped back into the van.

"Leaving so soon Seb?" Sherlock pretended to sound disappointed mockingly.

"Actually yes Sherlock. My true boss calls. Too bad though, I would have enjoyed the show…" The door slammed and the vehicle took off.

"Let's go, we don't have all day." Charles said to the man.

"Yes sir."

They walked into the theater, Sherlock on the brink of excitement. He was solving the case.

* * *

"Ah finally, my true nemesis walks in. Sherlock Holmes, a welcome." A man said dully.

"Harold, do you still have to be so dramatic?" The hood was still on his head.

"Boys, remove his blinder. Now." The voiced boomed commandingly.

Charles Baker followed the order.

"Now step away, if you will, from Sherlock." That command was also followed. Harold pulled a gun from behind him, and aimed the weapon at Sherlock.

"So, after all this time, you are going to seek your vengeance in this matter. _How insulting_!"

Harold slightly smirk, cocked his gun, and fired. But, it didn't fire a bullet at the detective. There was two shots, and the two men besides Sherlock dropped dead.

"You are right. That would be quite insulting."

Sherlock took this moment to scan around the room, ignoring the blood and flesh near him. It was a small theater, lit by candles that were on the stage. The room was quite small for a theater, the furniture warn, used very frequently back in its day. The stage was bland and was under construction. All the props were removed over ten years ago, when the theater closed down.

Dust settled in the room, and spider webs accompanied almost everything in the room. There were several blue velvet chairs permanently bolted to the floor, Sherlock assumed five thousand. Four of these chairs were occupied. His eyes landed on his friends; Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and John were gagged and bound to the chairs in the front row. A 'play' was going to be put on, Sherlock deduced.

His eyes finally landed on Harold again. "And what was the point in that Harold?"

"Loose ends. Hired them from the Pythons. They knew who really killed Julianne. It was to avenger her."

"If they were from the Pythons, why aren't you dead?" Sherlock asked coolly.

"Those two wanted money, and it was easy to hire them. I, of course look different than I did back then-"

"Naturally" Sherlock cut in.

Harold gave him an annoyed look. "I am sick of these games, I have waited too long. Get on the stage Sherlock. Now." Harold's commanding voice came back again.

"And what if I don't want to?" Sherlock asked to test the waters with Harold.

"I will kill those four over there without hesitation until you do." There was an edge in his voice.

Sherlock looked over to his friends who were staring at them. Molly and Mrs. Hudson were crying unsurprisingly, John looked furious, and Greg looked somewhat helpless. He sighed and made his way to the stage, jumping onto it when he reached it. He moved to the right, in front of his friends.

Harold stalked him to the stage, and made his way the left, leaving his gun in the far back of the room. "So here is how this is going to go. We will fight to the death Sherlock, and I will win. Vengeance will be mine completely, since you are the final key."

Sherlock stared at him more annoyed than ever. "You are a complete _idiot_ Harold. You really think I made up Moriarty. And who told you that? The man you hired to, I safely assume, kidnap my friends. The man who worked for Moriarty, was his loyal guard dog, doing everything he asked his precious hit man to do. I expected more from you Harold."

Harold's blood felt as if it was boiling, as if his skin was on fire. His face became red with utter anger. "How _dare_ you say that about me!" Harold pulled out his knife that was located conveniently on his side, and charged at his opponent .


	11. The Pain of Realization

**Hello there to all of those who have read this far. I want to thank you so much for supporting me and this fanfic. I know it is kinda crappy but hey, this is literally my first story I have ever written. Please please please review on this, guest or whatever! I need feedback on what I can do better. I also want to promise you that, pardon the language, shit gets real at the end of this. So please stay patient as I will try to write this chapters as quickly as possible! **

**Enjoy!**

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Sherlock side stepped as Harold charged at him, although the detective did get his arm cut by the knife. His forearm bleed, but he ignored it. He had a crazed man to deal with.

"How _dare_ you say those things about me! I am not weak, I can see clearly!"

"Yeah, says the deranged man about to kill an innocent man." Sherlock sneered, and dodged another attack.

"Moran wasn't lying! He gave me evidence that you created him!"

"You are desperate Harold, and if you kill me now you will never find out why Moriarty was hired to kill Julianne. I am your only chance."

Harold, hesitant, stopped for a second. Sherlock took the opportunity to tackle the other man to the ground. Harold landed on his stomach with his arm twisted behind his back.

"Let go of the knife Harold, or I will break your arm. I will not hesitate." The detective almost whispered calmingly. Everything went still, and a knife could be heard clattering on the ground in the whole room, echoing.

"Prove it to me. Prove it to me that you didn't create Moriarty." The man whispered in slight pain.

"Richard Brook is what he called himself. In German it translates to Reichenbach, a case that made me famous. I don't believe in coincidences, do you?"

"I- I have been played haven't I?" Harold said weakly.

"Manipulated, yes. Trying to pin the murder indirectly on me to keep you distracted from the truth. Are you calm now Harold?"

"I am not calm Sherlock, I am angry. Get _off _of me!"

He slowly arose from the man below him, and Harold stood. He cleared his throat. "Well then, I guess I do owe you an apology. I have no idea how I am going to make this up to you…" It was said in an ashamed, humiliated voice.

"Well, for starters you can unbound my friends and get these dreaded handcuffs off of me."

Harold dug out the keys from his pocket and tossed them to the detective. He jumped off the stage and unbound his friends with his hunting knife, just as Sherlock ordered.

"What the _bloody _hell is going on?!" John demanded when he was ungagged.

"John. Not now please. Everything will be explained later." Sherlock said calmly.

Greg Lestrade was also pissed when he was unbound. "I swear to God I will lock your arse in prison and you won't see the light ever again."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, _overacting; the definition of Lestrade._

"Sherlock, don't you dare comment on this. You keep your mouth shut!" Lestrade snapped. "I will not let this slide." He stood up and slammed Harold against the stage. "You, Harold Wilston, are under arrest for murder and kidnapping of a police officer and four civilians."

"Lestrade-"

"I said shut up Sherlock!" Lestrade boomed. He was furious. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hudson and Molly were cuddled together, trying to sooth the other. John stood up to help Lestrade with Harold.

Sherlock looked at his right forearm. He was bleeding everywhere. "We can't arrest him Lestrade. Sebastian Moran will kill him before this evening. I safely assume he was hired by another to manipulate Harold and kill me. I am sure you have moles in your department."

"What the hell do you mean? Who is this Moran guy anyway?" Lestrade snapped.

"He is a professional sniper, one of the best. Moriarty and he were somewhat close. During the three years that I was 'dead', I tried hunting him down. I traveled all around Europe and Asia for him, but I could never quite reach him. He is _clever_." Sherlock said in a disgusted tone.

"So what do you want me to do Sherlock? Let a murderer go, into the streets? Because if you are going to ask me to do that, I will down right refuse."

"No my dear Lestrade, I would never ask that of you. Give him to me. He will be in my custody. When we finally solve this case, then I will give him back to you. Do we have an understanding?"

"Only on one note," Lestrade said distrusting. "I want to know what the hell this case is, and who the hell you are." He added to Harold. "I want to know everything that happens, and I want to put a tracker on this one."

"No. No tracker. That's like begging Moran to kill Harold. Yes, we shall fill you in about what this case is, and I am done lying to you John," he said looking at the doctor. "I know you don't trust me, all of you, and I will tell you everything."

"Well, go on then," John piped in.

"No John, not here. Let us get back to our flat. We will have a conference there. It is the only place that I trust to talk aloud."

"I have a van outside, we can go to your accommodations by that way."

"I highly doubt that it will be drivable. A man like Moran would slash the tires, come back for you, and kill you after you have killed me. He would have expected you to get a ride from him after calling."

"Right," said Harold blandly. "We better get out of here before he figures that something is up."

"I concur. John, lets-" Sherlock lost his balance. His arm was throbbing, he lost much blood.

"Sherlock!" John gasped, and ran up to him. "We need to get this bandaged up. Does anyone have a cloth I can use?"

Everyone was silent. "Right. Sherlock, take off your shirt."

"John what?" Sherlock asked puzzled.

"Sherlock, I am not to entirely happy right now. Don't make me repeat myself." John said in a dangerous tone.

The consulting detective unbuttoned his shirt and handed it to John. Molly cleared her throat awkwardly. The purple shirt was wrapped tightly around the wounded arm.

"Okay, now let's get out of here."

"We shall walk." Harold said smoothly. He slightly pushed Lestrade off of him, and headed for the door. He looked back. "You coming or what?"

"Don't push it whoever you are," Molly finally said, and stood up with Mrs. Hudson. The others slowly joined Harold.


	12. The Confessions of One Sherlock Holmes

He sat in his normal leather chair in his cozy accommodations of 221B Baker Street, glancing at the filled room. John sat in front of him with his London flag pillow behind him, sitting on the edge of his chair. Lestrade stood next to the door, somewhat guarding it as if Harold Wilston were about to escape. Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper resided on the couch, while Harold leaned against the dining table next to Sherlock. The five of them were silent as they stared at Sherlock.

John looked at him with utter anger, and Sherlock understood why. He accepted a case in which he knew would get him and his friends in danger without telling John. The way that Sherlock neglected his flat mate's feelings, the pain he put the doctor through. Sherlock understood completely.

He also understood why Lestrade was so scornful. Sherlock also put his friend through a living hell, and never bothered to explain the real causes in why. Then, being arrogant as ever, he demanded the case files of one deceased James Rogers, not even thanking Lestrade. Sherlock was breaking apart his relationships.

He stroked his bandage on his right forearm. The medication eased the pain, but the dull throbbing was still present. The room was starting to fill with anticipation. The five of them wanted to know what the hell had happened in those horrid three years of Sherlock's absence. He sighed deeply. _Here it goes._

"I should probably start by retelling the events on the rooftop, not that it really matters as much as the rest of my story for this case. Moriarty gave me an ultimatum; I jump off the building, committing suicide and save my friends. When I mean friends, I mean you three." He pointed at Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and John. He looked at Molly and added, "He left you out of this."

"Anyways, Moriarty proclaimed that he had hit men on all three of you, one of them being Moran, his rifle aimed at you John. He explained that if I didn't jump, all my friends will die. We had somewhat of a battle of wits, and he killed himself. There was no other way to call off his _dogs, _but I, being me, had planned ahead. I won't go into detail of how I survived the fall, since that doesn't matter, but you all know that Molly helped me.

"Moriarty had left behind a mess for me to clean up. And Lestrade, these facts never leave the room," he said in a dead serious tone. Lestrade nodded gravely, agreeing. "I hunted down each of his snipers, one by one and dropped them. All of them, besides Moran. I hunted him down all over Europe, as I have told you before, but I could never catch up.

"Meanwhile, I took down some of his other loyal allies. I did this all so I could come back. So I wouldn't put you all in danger again. And now since Moran is back, as I feared, we are going to have to chase him out of the shadows. He surprisingly has a new employer, which peaks my interest.

"Moran is the type of manto only listen to the words of one man only, so I deduce that his new employer was somewhat close to Moriarty, or someone like him. Either or. This unknown subject wanted to manipulate Harold, which leads me to believe that that is the person who hired the hit on Julianne Walker. Moran's employer, whoever he is, must have some sort of vendetta against me, explaining why Moran wanted Harold to kill me."

Harold nodded his head slowly in understanding, and so did the others. They were finally accepting of this clarification.

"And if I killed you Sherlock Holmes, that manipulator would have gotten the best of me. He would have killed me soon after." Harold said with utter distaste. "I was fooled, and Julianne's case was used against me. When I find out who this fiend is, I will kill him with absolute pleasure."

Lestrade piped in. "And by the time we find out who this 'fiend' is, you will be locked up in maximum security, unable to touch him. Sherlock I think you can handle this by yourself. This _Harold _should be locked up." Harold looked at him hatefully.

"Lestrade. Lestrade I need_ him_ to solve the case. The person that is trying to manipulate him is very powerful. This 'employer' can get his hands on any resources to kill Harold. He is safest with me, and he is the only chance I have to find this person." Said Sherlock in a cooled tone.

Harold looked down at the detective. A new respect was forming between them, even though Harold knew he was essentially bait.

The Detective Inspector sighed deeply, considering this. "Very well, but if Harold gets one finger out of line-"

"He won't Lestrade. If he wants to catch this 'employer' half as much as I do, he will never do anything to corrupt this case. Trust me on this Lestrade."

The officer looked gravely at Sherlock, then at Harold. "I could lose my job for this." That was closest thing to a yes Lestrade would ever offer.

The room went silent again, for a beat, and then two. "I think it is mine turn to explain." Harold said softly. "I will tell of what I know of Julianne Walker also. All of it."


	13. The Confessions of One Harold Wilston

The man leaning upon the table cleared his throat uncomfortably. Five pairs of eyes were set upon him, waiting, listening. His hands somewhat shook, never thought in his life that it would come down to five people, four of them wanting him to die then and there, and he was about to spill his whole life story to them.

"Well, I have no idea where to begin."

"Start from the beginning Harold." The detective said dully.

"Right. Well, I guess I can start off by saying that I was born in January of the year 1981 in Yorkshire. My birth name was Peter Wilkins, but when I was eighteen I changed it legally to hide from my father. He was a very abusive man, and drove me into wanting to go into criminal justice. My mother died of suspicious causes when I was ten, and I always felt as if my father, Henry, was involved.

"My mother was nice enough, and I never understood why she married a man like Henry. She was an actress, loved to do plays and all of that stuff. It broke my heart when she died, and my father beat me horribly when she did.

"As I was saying before, I wanted to go into criminal justice. I went to the Uni here in London, and focused my education on gangs and their histories. When I was twenty two, I dropped out of the academy, since I knew nobody in London would hire me. I jumped here and there, hopping from one job to the next. Then, my father found me in 2003, when I was merely twenty three. Given my history of gangs, their style of murder and whatnot, I killed him. His case went cold.

"By the time I was twenty eight, I involved myself in the underworld, from managing money to shipping drugs myself. I was making load of money, and I was having the time of my life. But, I was smart and I wanted to get myself out of the trade when I made enough to retire. That was a year later, in 2010. I made deals with so many people, and I was exhausted. It seems I pissed someone off, maybe this 'employer' man who manipulated me, and ordered a hit on me. I didn't get a good look of the man's face that shot me. And that is when I met Julianne.

"She was a wonderful young girl. The more we talked, the more I fell in love with her. She was like my own daughter, and I felt as if I had the responsibility to take of her. She was very intelligent, lovable, but somewhat separated from the world. She didn't like her parents. She was an only child, her father, Liam, a business man, and Theresa always working. She always told me that she never belonged, that she felt as if she was born into the wrong family.

"We would have meetings together every Saturday, after getting counseling from her teacher, Mr. James Rogers. I never trusted the man, but she did, so I never intervened in the matter. From our meetings, I learned about her relationship between Charles Baker, who liked to present himself as if he was the leader of the Pythons. I never even heard of the Pythons until she talked about it. That's when she found out about my gang activities myself, and she was always curious about my education. She asked me so many questions, and I never thought anything about it. I tried to convince her of breaking up with the boy, especially since he was three years her senior, but she always refused and changed the subject.

"As that year went on, our meetings became less frequent. She seemed somewhat separated by that time, and it really showed. She didn't seem like that happy child I once knew, like she was starting to hate the world. As her meetings grew infrequent with me, her meetings with that teacher were more persistent."

This fact peeked Sherlock's attention. _So either the brother, Ethan, was lying, or James was lying to him. Interesting. _

"She would never tell me what went on between them, and I thought I would give a teenage girl her space. The Saturday before her disappearance was like every other meeting we had had frequently. We met at the park as usual, talking and playing a game of chess. She was amazing at chess, always beating me every time we played. Looking back on it though, she seemed a little happier than usual on that day, chattier than before. I never thought of that before…

"The day that her death was announced on the news was the day that I died. I had a feeling it was her before they found out her identity. And they showed her _body_ on the _news_ those nasty fucks! Disgracing her like that. Her body, found in the river, stab wounds all over her body. She was alive when she was dumped in that river, and she bled out.

"I cried for days, I had nightmares of the images of her disfigured, contorted body. I had anxiety attacks, and these symptoms never went away." Harold grabbed for his pills in his coat jacket, taking out two, and swallowed them dry. He continued with his story.

"Months passed, I sunk down to a perilous pit, doing risky behaviors, living on the streets. A man approached me, a tall handsome man, and a professional of some sort. He introduced himself as Sebastian Moran, and he told me information regarding Julianne, Moriarty, and you Mr. Holmes. That is when he told me that Richard Brook was in fact real, like it said in the newspapers of that time. I believed him, I had to, and I was desperate. He commanded me to clean up my habits, reinvent my life, and he would help me bring justice to those who were responsible for her death.

"I thought of Moran as the most loyal man I had ever met, and I curse myself now for being so stupid. It took me another year to fully reinvent myself as he ordered, and I got in contact with him. That is when he told me you were still alive Sherlock, that you faked your own suicide. I was furious, appalled, but somewhat happy that I could seek my vengeance upon you. It took me nine months to plan out everything with Moran, from hiring the thugs, like Charles Baker and the other two, to the certain time I would kidnap and kill Liam Walker."

"So you were responsible for that poor man's death!" Lestrade interrupted.

"He wasn't innocent," Harold snapped. "He was paid off a man who knew about Julianne's death. The man was James Rogers who paid him off."

Lestrade looked down to the ground, not holding Harold's menacing stare.

"And why was he paid off, Harold," Sherlock finally questioned.

"He knew something about her death. He refused to give up that information. So I got the name of the man instead, hoping that his tongue would be quite looser. It turns out that Rogers was already dead before I could get to him."

"I highly doubt that Rogers paid him off," Sherlock added. "It sounds like Liam was too terrified of this man who paid him off. It sounds like Moran's doing. He is the type to threaten family members and friends, as I assume he did, and Rogers is not considered as that type." Sherlock sighed. "Moran was always playing you Harold. And I am assuming he has been doing so ever since Julianne breathed her last breath."

"It makes more sense now. At least I have the opportunity now to torture a man that is alive instead of dead."

Sherlock chuckled somewhat darkly. "From Moran? He would start singing opera to mock you with a gun pointed at his head, ready to fire rather than tell you even remotely a lie of what Liam knew. It's hopeless."

Harold nodded solemnly. "I suppose you are right. I will still kill him though, and no one will stop me." He glanced at Lestrade. Surprisingly, Lestrade slightly approved of this action, but would never, in his life, admit it.

Sherlock glanced at the time. It was almost noon. "Lestrade, you better get back to work before your office sends a force to hunt you down."

Lestrade sighed. "You're right." He looked at Harold. "One finger out of line, and I lose my job, I will murder you myself and hide the body where no one will ever find it. Understood?"

Harold nodded. Lestrade stood up straight, and with a tired look, he turned around to the door and left. Molly and Mrs. Hudson were still on the couch.

"You should get back to work Molly, and Mrs. Hudson; I think you need to rest."

"Yes Sherlock, deary." Mrs. Hudson gave a look at Harold, somewhat empathically. Molly and her left the flat also, leaving Sherlock, Harold, and John in the living room.


	14. The Legendary Companionship is Broken

There was a slight tension that remained as Harold went to the kitchen. "I don't mean to be rude, but do you guys have anything to eat? Human needs calls." He said lamely. No one answered. He looked back on the two men. John was staring at Sherlock fiercely, while the detective ignored him, reading the paper, finding something interesting but Harold assumed there was nothing.

"Something wrong John? You have been staring at me like that for a while…" The detective said somewhat in a drifty voice, uninterested, without looking up from his paper.

Harold quickened his pace to the kitchen, getting out of this awkward moment.

"Yes, Sherlock, in fact there is something majorly wrong. And if you would actually look up from your bloody paper to talk to me for once!" The doctor snapped.

Meanwhile, Harold scrounged through the fridge. "Are these… _fingers_?" He said quietly to himself.

"Harold, if you have any manners at all, you will kindly place that experiment back where you found it." Sherlock said with a dead tone. Harold placed them back down with some disgust. He closed the fridge, somewhat sickened, and looked for food in the pantry.

Finally Sherlock looked at his angry flat mate sitting in front of him. His eyes had a glint of furiousness, his hands dead still. "So you are mad. How come? I told you the truth."

"And you couldn't have said it _sooner_? God Sherlock, putting us through all that pain, then you come back, and that explanation I just heard. That's all?" John was on a verge of a tirade.

"I held it off because it was necessary for the time John. I don't think it would be appropriate to come out of you from nowhere, jumping like a pathetic fangirl, saying 'oh, by the way, I am still alive, and I hunted and killed bad people John! Forgive me?'" Sherlock spoke in a sarcastic, mocking tone.

John stood up from his chair. Harold, from the kitchen, stayed in his position, with a knife holding peanut butter in his hand, a piece of bread in the other, looking over at the two other men. _This is about to get really awkward._

"Sherlock, you _machine_! How could you say that? Why do I even bother with you anymore? Why did I even from the beginning?" John yelled.

"I told you everything John. Be happy at that. You stuck with me from the beginning because I am your friend. And now my best friend doesn't trust me."

"I have never trusted you since you appeared again. You have been a complete mystery, a complete arse. Well, at least more than I remember."

"So what is this John? Are you going to leave?"

"I just might. I don't see what is keeping me back."

"Well go ahead John, leave. Because I have found someone better, someone more interesting." Sherlock referred to Harold.

All the man could think was _Holy shit. Fantastic. I am being dragged into this._

John glared at the man in the kitchen, and Harold gave the "I-have-nothing-to-do-with-this" look. The doctor stormed out of his room, and his loud footsteps could be heard descending the stairs. Sherlock immediately got up, grabbed his coat and scarf, and followed his flat mate outside.

"John, stop."

"What Sherlock? Hm? Going to tell me to pack up my things? Move out by nightfall?" John snapped, going outside. The men were hit by the bitterness of the afternoon. "Because you don't have to."

"What? What are you saying? Are you going to leave for real John?"

"What do you think Sherlock? Can't you just _deduce_ it yourself? Come up with a smartarse remark about it? Show how _clever_ you are?"

Sherlock huffed out a breath of angry, hot air. "I am going out. Do whatever John. I will see you around." He turned on his heel and stormed away.

"I certainly bloody hope not, Sherlock Holmes!" John yelled after him, then turning back into the flat. "Found someone bloody better. Right." He mumbled to himself.

* * *

Harold was still extremely hungry, not completing his task to make himself a peanut butter sandwich. He heard the yelling outside, and only one set of footsteps climbing the stairs. Doctor John Watson barged through the door, muttering to himself like a madman.

"He will miss me, I am his only friend. And him, pretending not to care." The upset doctor looked at Harold. "Hm? Anything to add to the average minded fellow in the room _Harold_?"

Harold, not knowing how to respond in this situation, replied "Uh… No?"

It was then that John Watson exploded. "That man, Sherlock Holmes, is the most arrogant, most evil, most irritating man in the whole bloody world. And I live with him. He always boasts about himself, always antagonizing me, infuriating me! And then he goes around, getting himself in danger, and '_dies_'. Then he comes back, _three years later_ Harold. Three! And he expects things to go back to normal. How in the hell am I supposed to do that Harold?

"When he came back, he was more secretive than ever. Always so quiet, to himself. Being a dick as always. I am sick of it Harold, and I am done! He is a complete sociopath, and I should have never gotten myself involved!" John finished, leaving Harold feeling more in an uncomfortable position than he ever was before.

Harold set down his knife. "John, um, I really am not the best person to talk to about this."

John still breathless from his rant.

"But," he added, "from what I know about Sherlock, he does care about you. All of you in fact. And you are definitely wrong about one thing doctor."

"And what the hell is that?" John snapped.

"He is not a sociopath." John gave him a dirty look. Harold held up his hands, full with the knife and the piece of bread. "I am serious. If that man, if Sherlock Holmes was a sociopath, he wouldn't help me with Julianne."

"No, you are wrong Harold. He is only doing it for the thrill of the chase!"

"No, you are wrong again John. He is not. If that man was a sociopath, he would have killed me on that stage. He would have never given me a chance. I told him it was a fight to the death. If he was a sociopath John, why was he so angry that you threatened to leave?"

John pondered on this thought. "I don't care," he responded stubbornly. "I will start to pack. You will be a great companion for Sherlock." John left the room, heading up to his own, starting to pack.

Harold looked upon the knife and the bread. He sighed. He had just lost his appetite.


	15. To Analyze a Detective

**Hello my darling readers. Oh my goodness I cannot thank you enough for reading this far into my crappy first fanfic. But, of course I am going to ask you for one favor. Yes, I am talking to you. You, yes you. I need a review from you. I need to know what you think. Please do not be in the sidelines! I need feedback! I thank you so so much! Enjoy this tini wini inbetweener chapter.**

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The door slammed in the evening in the flat, residing on Baker Street. Harold bolted awake, his back tight from sleeping in an uncomfortable position on the leather couch; a yellow smiley face peering down on him. He moved his neck to one side and another, rubbing the knots with his fingers. The tall, dark clothed man entered his residence, stuck his nose up and sniffed.

"John left." He said blandly. Sherlock removed his coat and scarf with haste, placed them on the hanger, and went to the kitchen. He sat down and pulled some evidence out of his pocket. Harold could not see what the detective was doing, but he knew that Sherlock was experimenting.

"Yeah, he left a few hours ago. Packed his things, didn't even leave a note of where his going."

"That's because he doesn't have to Harold." A voice muttered from the kitchen.

He took a deep breath and stood up slowly, stretching out his body. The blood flowed through his body, making him warm. He entered the barely lit kitchen, and stood opposite of where the other man was sitting. At that moment, Harold really looked at Sherlock.

His black hair, a curly mess above his head, contrasting his ever pale skin. His hollow face, with his sharp cheekbones protruding and high. His magnificent eyes, never knowing what item it was deducing next; its piercing frozen blue eyes could chill a person to the bone. Behind those eyes Harold knew laid a brain with intellect so far and deep, it could possibly be the greatest mind of the century. Harold's gaze was brought down, Sherlock looking into a microscope, his long, snaking fingers adjusting the knobs.

"Enjoying the view Harold?" Sherlock said, without looking up.

Harold ignored the comment. "Where am I going to be staying?"

"Given the _obvious_ fact that John left, you can have his room."

"So, no cellar in the basement then to tie me up and leave me in the dark?" Harold remarked in a sarcastic tone.

"No, and we call that Mrs. Hudson's room." He said dully.

Harold hid a smirk. Somehow the other man's sarcasm made him more confident in becoming allies with him.

"Thank you, by the way."

"For what? Not letting you sleep in the 'cellar'?"

Harold laughed at that. "You know what I mean…"

The other man took a deep breath. "Harold, the only reason I took up this case is because it is intriguing, it is definitely an eight, and I have a feeling I might unlock something big. That is all."

"No, no it's not Mr. Holmes. You cannot fool me like you can with John. I can see through you and your actions. I always have been able to."

Sherlock looked up from his microscope. And to Harold, he seemed… sad. Like his whole life story was defined by this one moment. Pain, sorrow, loss. The three words that truly defined this man's life. Harold could relate. He experienced the same.

"I can see right through you because I see a piece of me. No, I am not massively intelligent like you are, not I cannot deduce a person in a single glance; but what I do know and experience on a daily basis is pain, anger, depression, loss, exedra. He will be back, John will, when all of this is over. I know you truly care for him, and he knows that. When this case is over, when this is all put behind you, he will come back."

Harold noticed a glint of emotion in Sherlock's eye. Maybe it was relief, maybe of utter confusion; lost. Maybe it was just plain annoyance, but it was gone.

"Harold, I suggest you get to bed. You are going to need your rest." And with that Sherlock refocused on his experiment. _Well that was enlightening…_ Harold said lamely in his mind. He stalked out of the kitchen and to his new quarters.

Sherlock stared at his experiment, wishing he could focus, but thought of nothing at all.

* * *

"So he finally moved out, eh?" A voiced sounded in Sebastian Moran's ear.

"Yes sir. He has sought out his old living quarters in London, where he lived before he met our little friend."

"Ah good. Things are going as planned then?"

"Yes sir. Harold is in 221B Baker Street for a while it seems. We know exactly where he is at all times."

"And of course Sherlock _knows_ that. He knows we don't have an intention to attack. He knows I want to be found."

Sebastian smiled. "I cannot wait for that day, sir."

"Neither can I, Seb. Neither can I…"


	16. The Questioning of an Unknowing Man

The fresh and strong musk of coffee filled the air in the flat of 221B Baker Street. A smell that Sherlock awoke to. _John never made coffee…_

The intelligent detective strode out of his room, walking slowly to the kitchen. "You made coffee."

"Obvious doesn't suit you Mr. Holmes," replied Harold, the sound of sizzling coming from the pan he was holding. "And eggs."

"I will pass on _those_."

"No you won't Mr. Holmes, because you haven't eaten for days."

"You sound like John already," he mumbled to himself. "And just call me Sherlock. You are my flat mate now; no need for formalities."

"Yes, _Sherlock_." The words somewhat foreign in his mouth. "And if you don't eat these eggs, and the rest of your breakfast, I will tie you down and shove this food down your throat with as much force as I can until you eat it all."

"I see you haven't lost your glimmer yet, _Harold_." Sherlock said in a rude tone.

"Want to test that theory yet? Shall I fetch the wire?"

The detective across from Harold smiled lightly. "No need." He sat down. Harold placed a plate full of food in front of him. "I cannot guarantee I can eat that _all_…"

"Hmmm now where did I stick that wire?" Said Harold in a somewhat wondering tone, mockingly.

"You know what Harold, you are worse than John. I hope you understand that."

"Perfectly Sherlock," he sipped some coffee. "And I hope a lot more violent. I would pay to see John being all forceful with you."

The detective sighed, not wishing to speak of the subject of his previous flat mate. "Harold today I need to pick your brain for information. I need to piece everything together to find Moran."

"Shoot."

"First question: When did you start to let people know that you were leaving the business of this 'accounting and shipping' of yours?"

"It was a month before I got shot, in July of 2010. Naturally, I had to do some 'favors' to get out of what I was doing. But it was worth it. Things were taking the turn for the worst. The Pythons were starting to make a name for themselves, their hidden leader fierce and powerful. When they started to dominate the trade was when I wanted no part of it. I could sense danger, and I was right."

"And I assume these favors had something to do with taking out a few enemies?"

"Ha. A 'few' enemies," Harold stated bitterly.

"It was a rough transition out, it doesn't surprise me. So you must have pissed off this Python boss, he sent a hit man on you, not surprisingly Moran, and killing you was unsuccessful. I am assuming that Moran must have been for hire at this time. Since Moriarty was a consulting criminal of sorts, he would have lent out his little loyal _toy_," The detective said with pure hate.

"We will find him," Harold said reassuringly. "I want to kill him as much as you do, or even more. This hatred runs deep in me, and I will never give up on it. I will have my_ vengeance_!"

Sherlock sighed annoyed and shook his head. "Is there ever a moment where you are not so overly dramatic?" He said rhetorically.

Harold glared at him. "You should be happy that I am on your side because if you weren't, I swear to fuc-"

The other man cut him off. "Save your breath. It is a waste of my precious air in this tight room. I still have more questions for you. When you first met Julianne Walker, did you notice anything particular about her? Anything she said, did something not seem right?"

"Julianne?" Harold asked, ignoring the insulting comment. "No, she was just a fifteen year old girl, her manners were kind of rude, and she swore, but she was sweet, and I cared for her immediately. She was like a _daughter_ to me."

"Did she contain a rebellious behavior at time when you talked to her?"

"As much as a rebellious teenager can get. What do you want me to say? She felt alone in the world, she hated her parents. They were never there for her. She was kind and quiet, she had some good friends but her social life out of school was somewhat non-existent besides that gang she was involved with. I told her to get out of it, that it was dangerous. She replied smugly, saying that 'it is just a phase'. Oh she would drive me crazy with that line.

"I knew she could handle herself and she knew exactly what she was doing, but I still worried for her consistently. She was very bright and sharp, had the maturity of someone older than herself. She was always curious, always wanting to learn more. That's why she met with her teacher, Mr. Rogers, you see?

"I guess she would always ask me questions about gang activity because she wanted to get Charles out of it. She knew I got out of the trade, and she wanted to know _everything_. Some days I would feel like I was being interrogated by some officer, wanting to know the details of an alibi to a key."

Sherlock cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. His mind was racing with scenarios. "How did she feel about her family? You said she hated them."

"Hated them would be of a modest word. Her parents always worked, as you already know, and they ignored her consistently. She practically raised herself. Julianne had a tough life, and she felt that she had never belonged." Harold replied in a soft, sad tone.

"Did you ever meet the parents? What did she say exactly about them?"

"I had never met them when she was alive, she didn't want me to. She would always talk about how they never cared for her, how she had theories that she was adopted, just normal teenager behavior I presume."

"Well you presumed wrong Harold. This is a different case. How can a girl of fifteen save a man that got shot, blood all over her. Theresa Lowell didn't even notice her own child get home with _blood_ all over her clothes. And she never even mentioned it to them. Either Theresa was lying, which she wasn't, or Julianne was hiding a load of information from her mother."

Harold stared at the detective, his face red. "I am sure she had a reason for it." He said weakly.

"I am sure she did, just like there was a reason she was placed in the river. Tomorrow we talk to Theresa. I am going out. You are not to leave this flat, do you understand Harold?" Sherlock stood, and gathered his coat and scarf. "Is the understood Harold?" He said with a more forced tone.

"Perfectly Sherlock."


	17. An Ominous Letter

The small house owned by Theresa Lowell was still, and eerily quiet. A tense mood was portrayed by the tipped furniture and broken glass. The grandfather clock in the corner of the living room ticked, a soft tick-tock like a metronome, leaving a saddened and gloomy mood. The couch was tipped on its side, a clutter of tables, broken, scattered around the place. A frame with the picture of Julianne was shattered, a trail of blood dripping off one of its cracked glass. The small television was ruined, thrown on the ground, neglected. In the middle of the carpeted floor, a wet ruby red stain was present.

A loud knocking was heard in the other room, of the front door. It echoed around the still and empty house, lifeless, sorrowed. Voices of two men could be heard from the living room, one familiar, the other not. The knocking was heard again, this time with more annoyance and commanding, persisting.

"Oh for God's sakes," Sherlock muttered, and knocked harder. "Mrs. Lowell, I have more questions for you. I know you are in there. Your vehicle is outside."

"Maybe we should just break in then?" Suggested Harold. The detective stared at him. "What? I'm already going to prison after this. We can just say that she called out for help."

Sherlock Holmes stepped aside and gestured to the window. "By all means Harold. Your moral complex is non-existent, unlike John, leaving me to be more flexible with you." He added.

The other man looked at the window, stalked towards it, and lifted. It was unlocked surprisingly. "Just like someone wants us in…"

The first thing the two men saw was the chaotic destruction of the foyer. Pictures were smashed, graffiti painted the walls. It was not the same environment that Sherlock entered three days ago. He knew what was coming. He slowly entered into the living room. Ms. Theresa Lowell's body laid in the middle of the floor, a wide shape of blood surrounded her body.

* * *

Harold stared at the lifeless shell of a body, barely listening to the Detective Inspector and his new companion, Sherlock Holmes. Her dull blue eyes were open, head tilted to the left, staring at Harold. Lowell's body was facedown, hiding all the knife wounds that covered her stomach. Her pajamas were ruined, covered with blood and scattered damaged furniture. It was all too gruesome.

"So, should I even ask how you entered this residence Sherlock?"

"No, because it is all too obvious. Observe Lestrade."

"And I am assuming that it was _yours truly_ who broke in," Lestrade looked at Harold.

The man scowled at Lestrade. "The window was unlocked. Only a fool would call that breaking in." Harold said bitterly. He saw Sherlock put something into his pocket secretly, while Lestrade was turned away.

Gregory Lestrade ignored the comment. "So, what do we know? Obvious break in, the victim died in the middle of the night, neighbors heard commotion but thought nothing of it, no fighting was reported. This attack was quite quiet, and we must figure out what was stolen."

"It was not a robbery Lestrade, if that is what you think. This was a message. Whoever did this had much hate towards Ms. Lowell. The murderer despised this woman. This is no coincidence from the case we are working on Lestrade. This was meant as a message as I have said previously. We are dealing with brutal people here Harold," he looked at the man's direction. "And this is deadly."

The Detective Inspector looked between the two. "We are about to move the body to the morgue. Molly Hooper will do the autopsy. If you see any more clues, let me know will ya? Remember, we are working on this case together," Lestrade said in a dangerous tone, and gave a dirty look to Harold. "Behave yourself." And with that, Gregory left.

"A cheery fellow there." Harold said sarcastically.

"You should see him when he's drunk." They both watched him leave.

* * *

It took another hour for the men to remove the body from her residence. Once again Harold and Sherlock stood in the living room, the only two individuals in the house.

"Did you find anything of use?" Harold asked blandly, continuing to stare at the blood stain.

"No, besides one thing." He pulled out an envelope from his coat pocket. "This is addressed to me. I figured that Lestrade didn't need to know. What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

Harold looked at the paper in the man's hand. On the front it read in bold, capitalized letters, "SHERLOCK HOLMES". It was unsealed, and Sherlock pulled out the trifold letter; a brittle, old parchment. The consulting detective read it silently in his head, than reread it aloud.

_Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,_

_Well, it is truly an honor to finally get in contact with you, after these long and hard years. Always watching from a distance, I have admired your skill and trade. I have longed for contact, and look at where we are today. I am overjoyed at the fact that Harold has done his part and introduced you to this case. I hope you have had fun with it as much as I have, as it is now coming close to its end. Although I do not deny that I wish Harold had killed you, as plans were supposed to go, but this set up is much better, more beneficial in my instance. I shall look forward to the day we finally meet Mr. Holmes._

_You know where to find me._

Sherlock studied the wording, the phrasing of the letter. He smelled the parchment, it being of a specific quality. The ink used on this letter was of a rare type. Oh yes, Sherlock knew exactly where to find this mysterious author.

Harold cleared his throat. "Well that sounded somewhat ominous. 'You know where to find me'? Do you know where Sherlock?"

"I have a few ideas, yes."

"How in the world-"

"The parchment used, it is rare, as well as the ink, it is homemade. There is a book store of which I know of. Both of these are from there. The owner of this book store is shady of sorts. He will be able to give us information that shall be useful. It is on the other side of London, and we better start going. The owner always works well during the evening."

"What shady business does this man do? Who is he?"

"He goes by the name of Toby Kirth. He is an ex-convict of sorts, knows the drug trade well. He should be able to tell us useful information of the _beloved_ Pythons. I shall call a cabbie."


	18. A Never Dying Man

Toby Kirth was having his average, normal day. Customers wandered in and out of his bookshop, some window shopping, others for a certain "side-business". He sat in his green chair, obviously too small and fragile under his massive body. His face was unshaven for weeks, leaving a scruffy texture for anyone to see. His black curly hair, disheveled, lay on his head; his long curls covered his tanned forehead. His beer belly protruded out, his long shirt barely covering it.

He was a twisted man, Kirth was. Toby was always receiving information about ongoing operations from nearby gangs, especially those of the Pythons. A close "friend" of his was a member. This "friend" was always referred to as Sebastian, and he would always use Toby for special tasks. Kirth was surprised by the last task given by Sebastian. _Parchment and ink_, all he said. _And a message to give._ So Toby waited… and he waited for the person to obtain that message.

* * *

Harold looked upon the old bookstore. A yellow sickening light spilled out the windows of the late evening. The ally smelled of garbage and sewage. He cringed his nose. A sort of memory fizzed in the back of his mind. The depression swift through his body, the pain of his old life a year ago flowed to his heart. He felt lost again, only Sherlock was there to keep his afloat in his sanity. But, he did feel sick to his stomach. He was close, so close to reaching this murderer. The man who destroyed his life. He looked up.

"Kirth's Ye Old Book Shoppe? Really Sherlock? We have been sent to this hell hole with a horrid name?" Harold said in disbelief.

"I know, it is such a _creative_ name. But Toby Kirth knows something. He always does. I've been trying to catch him in his schemes, but there is always another who protects him. A mysterious force that keeps the law away from him. I am hoping to bring him down soon." Sherlock said in a matter of fact tone.

Harold sighed, and continued to the door. "I hope you are right. For the information I mean." He grabbed the door handle and looked back at the other man.

"Since when do you doubt me Harold?"

"I never have…" His voice faded as he opened the door.

The smell of damn and moldy pages of books greeted them. A thick smoke smell was present in this foul air. A voice boomed from the back, the owner hidden by the piles of disgusting books. Harold looked back at Sherlock for reassurance, and the detective gave him a stare. He then nodded, and Harold proceeded to enter the repulsive building.

"Back here. How may I help you gentlemen-"

"Save the formalities Kirth, I am here for a reason."

"Mister- Mr. Holmes! What do I owe the pleasure this fine evening?" He asked with a fake terror in his voice.

Sherlock pulled out the letter from his pocket. "Do you mind telling me why this is addressed to me? Why _I _am here?"

"I-I figured you could deduce that on your own," said Kirth, testing the waters a bit.

"You know something Kirth, now tell us and you won't get hurt," Harold finally said, with a confidence and edge of danger in his voice.

The fat man looked between the two and hesitated. "What do you want me to say?"

Harold reached over the counter, and snatched the man's shirt. He brought him close. "I gave you an order. I have waited too long for this. Tell us. Now!"

Toby swallowed thickly. He may have known much information, known so many people to protect him, but he was still a coward.

"Okay okay," he gave in. Harold let him go, and the fat man sat in his fragile green chair. He straightened his shirt, and looked at both men.

"There are whispers in the shadow of a man, " he started in a hushed tone. "A man who knows of all. A man who escaped death, from the deep clutches of hell." Sherlock rolled his eyes. Toby continued. "It is said that he controls the Pythons. It is more than what either of you two thinks, you know. People, important people, say that it is for something more. Something so big even the governments of the world can't stop. He is a fearless leader, a man who knows no limits. A man who welcomes death into his arms, and will manipulate the inevitable against the unstoppable.

"This man, the man who escaped from death has a common name. A name of the past. A name well known to us all in London."

Harold interrupted. "And who is this man?"

"The man Sherlock once referred to as a spider. A spider who knows the webs of his organization, how each one will be played. A man, known only as Moriarty."

"But that's impossible!" Harold cried. "That beast is dead!"

"Quite so Harold," Sherlock added. "That man is dead, and your information to us is invalid." He looked at the book store owner.

"But are you sure Sherlock? He is a smart man." Toby added menacingly. Harold looked at Sherlock for guidance, his eyes contained a fierce fire.

Sherlock sighed. "Where is Sebastian Moran? You obviously know who he is; I can almost smell the musk of his cologne in here like he is right next to me."

"He came in here yesterday-"

"Yes I know don't waste my time Toby," he said irritably.

"He said that two men would come in here, asking a single question. I was told to deliver a message, to both of you."

"_And_?" Harold stressed.

"You will find Sebastian soon. You will meet him tomorrow, along with the_ inescapable_ storm. I am to give you an address. If you do not go at your designated time, Sebastian will do unpredictable things. Well, at least that's what he told me."

"Where is this address?" Harold asked not so nicely.

Toby took out another piece of parchment paper, similar to the letter Sherlock held. He scribbled down the address, and handed it to the detective. "The best of luck to you gentlemen. Now get out of my shop before I bring in the boys to kick you out."

* * *

The pavement glistened with the reflection of the road lights. The light patter of rain was heard through the moving city, never dying. The air was chilled. Footsteps could be heard from a distance, mimicking the rain.

"But Sherlock, it makes sense now. How can you deny that he isn't alive?"

"Because, _Harold_, it doesn't make sense. Moriarty would never deal with a little girl who dated another from the Pythons."

"It makes sense that he killed her because she saved me."

"Any why would _he_ care that she saved you? Think Harold, Moran has been manipulating you from the beginning. He is hiding the truth."

Harold gave up convincing him. He knew Moriarty was alive, him being the leader behind it all. It made perfect sense. _Why couldn't Sherlock see it? Was it denial? Was it to protect himself from failure?_

"Harold stop thinking, it's annoying and wrong." Sherlock stated flatly.

Harold cleared his throat to say something, but decided against it. They walked quietly back to the flat on Baker Street. _Tomorrow is going to be a big day._


	19. A Long Awaited Revelation

Three am.

He tossed and turned in his bed all night. The visions of the girl that mattered fluttered through his mind, the nightmares haunting him. He perspired, he muttered in his sleep. He was restless.

Vivid colors and memories played in his mind. Her smile, her laughter, her sometimes foul language rang in his ears. The last time Harold saw Julianne was the memory that haunted him.

She looked somewhat sad, but she always did. Julianne always had something to hide, from her parents, from Harold, from the world, from herself. Her smile was always a fake one, the depression of her heart glazed her eyes over. Anyone who really knew her could see that her mind was going through a living hell.

"Julianne, I have missed you!" Harold proclaimed the last Saturday that met at the park.

"Oh Harold I have missed you as well." She said, with her light voice. "I am sorry that I have been so busy," she sighed, "but school is school, and Charles, is well, Charles."

"I won't mention again how you need to stay away from that boy, Julianne," he said somewhat tensely at the name.

"Oh Harold it's just a-"

"It's just a phase. I know, you tell me all the time. But you know I worry about you. Especially lately." Harold said in a softer tone, happy to hear her again.

She laughed. "I know Harold. And I am going to be fine. I always make it out okay in the end."

He looked at the young lady, still worried, but he hid it well. He would have to pay a visit to this Charles soon.

She sat next to him on the park bench. "Bit warm today, isn't it Harold? For an October day?"

He breathed in deeply, smelling the autumn air. "Yes, and it is nice. It could be a sign of a bad winter though. A bad omen."

"You are so pessimistic aren't you Harold? Live for the moment! Live for the day!" She chanted , more happy than she was before. She got up and danced around the fallen leaves. "Fall, the best time of the year!"

"Yeah, where everything dies and goes cold," he muttered.

"Exactly!" She exclaimed. "A new beginning arrives after the coldness. You should be at least_ cheerful_ about that Harold!" She laughed again, dancing, arms spread out, twirling.

He shook his head. He couldn't help but smile. "Julianne, can I ask you something?"

She stopped dancing, and looked at him, a smile still on her face. "Yeah, anything."

Harold cleared his throat. "You said you never liked your parents. I know you are fifteen and all, and you can make decisions on your own. Have you ever thought of me… adopting you? I mean, I know it's somewhat unreasonable, but you can file charges, you can come with me. Or we can just leave. The thing is, I love you Julianne, like you are my own daughter. And I want you to be. You make me a better person." It was said awkwardly, rushed. He turned red.

Everything stopped. She stood there. Tears filled Julianne's eyes. "No, I can't go with you Harold." She said blandly. "But, when I turn eighteen, you can take care of me then. I will move out. But until that time, we shall forever meet on Saturdays! I will never miss another one again!"

There never was another meeting. And Harold shot up in his sleep; tears covered his face, his hands once again shaking. He grabbed, once again, for his pills. His medicine. The only thing that kept him sane in these dire moments of need.

The pill that he grabbed out of the container fell on the floor. Only one. Only one left. He cursed under his breath. There would be no time to get more. He picked up the fallen medicine, and took it hastily as possible.

As a routine, he could not fall back asleep. He looked at the clock: 3:47 am. Slowly, he dragged himself out of bed, slumped downstairs, and headed into the bathroom. Turning on the water, he felt sick. He puked up everything in his stomach into the toilet, including the pill.

"Fuck," he muttered. He felt as if he was coming apart. He stepped into the shower after he was emptied, and he stood under the cold water for what seemed like several hours.

* * *

Five am.

Sherlock waiting for Harold in the dark, sitting in his normal chair. The only light source was the morning and the light that seeped through the bathroom door. His breathing was calm and slow, like he was sleeping. But he was conscious, awake, preparing himself for what Harold and he will face in the coming evening.

A door handle was turned, and the flow of light flooded the hallway. The creaking of the floor echoed upon the walls of the flat. Harold coughed lightly. He strode to the kitchen, and almost jumped when he noticed a dark figure, lingering in the shadows.

"Sherlock," he gasped, his breath hoarse from the previous events in the bathroom.

"You look ill Harold. Have a seat," he waved a long stick to the seat in front of him. A bow.

Harold nodded, and sat down.

"I am assuming you had these symptoms for a while. At the verge of a mental breakdown. I correct myself; you are beyond a mental breakdown. The medication that you have been taking to calm your shaking and other symptoms have run out. It is obvious, your eyes explain all."

"It is not obvious Sherlock, "replied Harold. "We are in the dark."

"I heard you puking." Sherlock muttered admittedly.

"Yes, I have run out. It was a special type of medication that Moran supplied me with. It is a rare and expensive medicine, and now I am out."

"After this evening is all over with Harold, I will find out the true medical attention you need. The pills Moran has supplied you with is most likely far worse and addictive than what would have helped. All for manipulation."

"And my day just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?" Harold whispered, somewhat quivering.

Sherlock cocked his head, he could almost see the teary eyes of the man in front of him, the morning light dimly shining on his face. "Harold, everything is going to be fine. We will bring down this leader." The man with a bow said in a reassuring voice.

"You couldn't stop Moriarty before, Sherlock…"

"No, he stopped himself when he shot himself in front of me. Moriarty is dead."

"Why will you not see the obvious?" Harold asked, his voice louder.

"I will not argue with you. This is exactly what Moran's employer wants. Now stay focused. I know it's hard."

Harold nodded, but deep down his heart disagreed with Sherlock. The man was intelligent, Harold knew, but the denial had sunk in so deep at this moment. Not only did Harold need help, but he thought the same was needed for Sherlock; someone to talk to.

* * *

Twelve thirty pm.

"Are all the preparations ready?" A voice stated lamely in the distance.

"Yes sir, as always." Moran replied. "Everything will work out wonderfully, to your advantage."

"Good. Thank you Moran."

"It is always a pleasure to serve you, Moriarty."

* * *

Seven Forty Five pm.

"Harold, stop cat napping it's time to go," a voice awoke the sleeping man. His mouth was bitter, his mind groggy. He jolted awake though when he remembered what had happened.

"Right." He slid off the couch, slowly getting his shoes on.

"The _miracles_ of power naps," Sherlock mocked enthusiastically. "Now let's go. I want to finish this case already."

"I concur…"

* * *

Eight Thirty

The address on the letter that Sherlock received was in front of them. It was in a dark place of the city; graffiti covered the walls, and there was only one doorway they could see accessible in the alleyway. It was a big building of sorts, with broken windows and abandoned.

"The moment we have all been waiting for, and we end up here. What a _show_…"

Harold ignored the other man's comment. He was too lost in his own scrabbled mind. He was ready to kill James Moriarty, to make him suffer for what he had done to his precious Julianne. The one that he loved like a daughter. His heart raced, the blood screamed through his ears. He was ready.

The fall evening was ending, being replaced by night. The wind grew nippy, and the men walked in.

It was quiet; a light could be seen from the maze of hallways Sherlock and Harold had to walk through. Their footsteps echoed, and the door slammed behind them. The slowly made their way to the end of the maze, and another big door faced them.

The two looked at each other, knowing what lay behind this door. Everything stopped, timed slowed. The tension was growing, and Harold finally nodded his head. "We need to get this over with."

"Be reasonable Harold. Make sure you know every consequence of your actions."

Sherlock stepped forward and opened the door. Down the hall sat a form on a throne.

Harold's eyes widened.

The form sat on a throne.

The form of a girl.

An older version of a girl from the past.

The form of the girl that mattered.

* * *

**Ha Ha! How many of you saw that coming. Oh yeah, it gets better. Way way way better. Okay, you have no idea how much fun that last section was to write. I am a horrible person. Anyways, leave a review, let me know how you feel about the path of this story!**


	20. The End of Harold

**You know what to do. Please leave a review after this chapter.**

* * *

"Julianne," he gasped, barely being able to breath at the sight of her.

She had a different appearance. Her hair dyed a dark brown, curly, her lips glistened a pink tint. She was recognizable by Harold though, an older girl that he once knew.

"Julianne, you're… you're-" He couldn't finish his sentence. "How could you be-?"

"Alive you mean Harold? Please do find your words, it is utterly annoying that you are speechless," she said nonchalantly.

He stood gapping at the sight. He couldn't breathe. It was Julianne, but yet it wasn't. A lot had happened in the past few years and he could see it as clear as day.

"But- but how?"

"By not being killed Harold. _Obviously_." Julianne mocked, looking over at Sherlock. "I thank you for not telling Harold, Sherlock. This reaction is just _too_ priceless!"

Harold couldn't function. With the mix of shock, and his mental status, he was on the verge of breaking down completely. "You- you knew Sherlock? That she was alive?"

The young girl made sure that Sherlock did not answer. "He is a genius Harold. Never doubt that."

"I had my suspicions Harold. I never told you because I thought I could be wrong. I wished I could be wrong." The detective muttered under his breath.

"But how could you say that? She's alive! Everything is normal again." Harold exclaimed, not thinking the situation through.

"You really are a dumbarse, aren't you Harold?" She shook her head. "Are you that oblivious?"

"What is she talking about Sherlock?"

"I will let you explain the matter Sherlock, I want to see his reaction."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "She is the leader of the Pythons, Harold. Moriarty put her in charge. She faked her death that night, on October 30th. She was the one that murdered James Rogers, and her own mother Theresa-"

"She wasn't my mother!" Julianne snapped. "She was a sick old lady that took me from where I belonged. I was adopted!" She then calmed herself down. "Moriarty, he is my half-brother. We share the same father. Not Liam, no, he is not my biological father. My brother killed him, our father. He deserved it, but that is a different story."

"Please, do explain more, Julianne," Sherlock encouraged.

"Moriarty found me, about a year before I found Harold. He said that in August of 2011, there will be a man you must save. This man will be the key to your salvation, to your uprising. He introduced me to Moran. James told me that he would be dead soon and that Moran will always be by my side, since we shared the same blood. That Moran will be loyal to me, to help me, to guide me to my ultimate goal. James, he gave me this organization! The Pythons!

"I was told to save this man, to learn everything from him. The ultimate expert on how to run a business with a drug trade. I questioned Harold in that year after I saved him, learning everything. Then to the time of my death, we found a girl who had the same body type as me. Then, I faked my death. Deal some heavy blows to the face, fake a kidnapping, BINGO! I am dead."

"Why did you kill James Rogers, Julianne?" Sherlock questioned, already knowing the answer.

She chuckled. "He got greedy, he stole some cocaine, tried to leave. Said that things had gotten 'too intense' for him. What a pussy! So, he went down." Amused, she laughed.

"This can't be possible…" Harold finally said.

"Aw, poor Harold. So behind on what is the obvious."

"You were gone for two years, Julianne. I am assuming you trained for whatever it is you are supposed to do."

"Quite so! In fact, such a coincidence Moran and I ran into you in Russia. We both thought you were dead! It was a shock. That's how you never got to catch Moran, Sherlock. We were always a step ahead. We saw you coming. Not so smart now, now are we?"

Sebastian Moran stood silently beside Julianne, on her right hand side. He smiled lightly.

Harold, finally realizing what has been going on, snapped. "You, Julianne Walker, have been manipulating me from the beginning?! After all that time, I cared for you, loved you, treated you like a daughter!"

"Since we are on the subject of daughters, Julianne, what did your father know? Why was he paid off?" Sherlock interrupted the other man's tirade.

She clapped her hands. "Oh Sherlock! Asking such good questions! Getting right to the point. Ah yes, he knew I was still alive. And, so not to create suspicion, Moran paid him off. Goes to show how much of a greedy man Liam was. Thank you, by the way, for killing him Harold. Sometimes I am happy I didn't kill you off the day at the park!"

He stepped forward. "Julianne, you have manipulated me-"

"Yes."

"And you have made me this way-"

"Happily"

"And you have made me the most angriest man in the world-"

"Oh _thank_ God!"

"I will kill you. I can't believe this has happened to me!" He shook, and he charged at her, a knife drawn from his waist.

She stood up immediately, and pulled out a pistol. A loud bang echoed throughout the abandoned building, and blood flew into the air. Harold fell down, dead before he landed. He head, bloodied and wounded.

Sherlock stopped. Julianne stopped. Moran stopped.

Time stood still, everything slowed. Sherlock watched in horror as Harold's lifeless body slammed into the pavement, his eyes showing pain and emptiness.

Harold was dead. And Sherlock was broken.

He swallowed, and hid his pain.

"Well at least that is finally over with. Jeesh, he was a pain. Moran, let us go. We are done here." She aimed her attention to Sherlock. "I like you, I really do. But you see, this is what happens when one gets in my way. If you dare try to stop me in the next coming months, I won't play with you. I will make sure I have your head on a stick, sharpened at both ends. Do I make myself clear, detective?" She asked in a harsh tone.

The detective only nodded.

"Then I shall see you around. Goodbye Mr. Holmes. And make sure that this mess gets cleaned up." She made a gesture to Harold's body. "Until next time." She mocked a salute, and she left with her loyal servant.

Harold was dead. It was the only thing that Sherlock could think of. He didn't move for some time, only watched the puddle of red liquid around Harold grow larger. Uncontrolled.

Sherlock did one thing that he never expected he would do. He felt an emotion; an emotion of grief, of a fear. And he shed a tear. He, like the draining of Harold's blood, his life source, was uncontrolled.


	21. Epilogue

It was a cloudy November day when Sherlock stood over his friend's grave. He was speechless, but there were so many things to say. But what could be said? _I am sorry Harold, this shouldn't have happened? I will bring her down, even if it is to my death?_ No words could be found of what Sherlock was thinking, even with his colorful vocabulary.

"Lestrade told me what happened," said a familiar voice in the background. The man walked next to Sherlock, and stared at the gravestone. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine John. As always." He muttered in response.

"So this Julianne girl is still alive then? What are we going to do about it?"

"She is planning something big. I have a few guesses at what it is, but my mind is scrabbled. We are going to stop her though. There is no choice."

"Who will help you out? You always need someone Sherlock, someone to help."

"Come back to Baker Street, John. It is not the same without you these days."

John nodded, and he turned his back, the writing still engraved into his mind:

**Harold Wilston**

**January 17****th****, 1981-November 10****th****, 2013**

**May he never be forgotten,**

**Even in days of the dark.**

"I will move in tonight," John said at last, and he left Sherlock alone, standing in front of Harold's grave.

_A man, alone in the dark_

_A man, frightened for a loved one._

_Injustices are done each day,_

_But this one will never pass unnoticed to one._

* * *

**Oh my goodness Part I is done! Yes there will be a Part II. I will start to write that section of the story after I go back and revise all previous chapters in this story. I have some important things to say, so please read this ****_whole_**** author's note**

**Alright, anyways, thank you so much for reading! It has been great fun, and the next part will be epic. Like truly badass. Warning though: Part II will be a disturbing piece. I am rating it M for the content being put into it. I have almost the whole thing planned, and it will be exciting. The importance of the next part is to show how dark humanity can really get, so use your imagination on what is to come.**

**Next thing: A treat for you all! Well, call it what you want, but I call it a treat. For my twitter users out there, I have made an account for Julianne, so as I write the chapters, I can RP with her as well. This account is Julianne_WM (Sorry Jade, I already created one a while ago). To the readers who don't have a twitter, I highly suggest getting one (With parent permission of course) and come find me! You can talk to the writer! Whoop! Oh, and I do have a Harold account, 2 actually: HaroldWilston and MyVengeanceHW but they are deleted at the moment. They will be back soon, maybe.**

**Another thing: I will be posting a timeline and character summaries for the next chapter. They are to help me out, but I shall put them up if you are curious about it.**

**And I think that wraps things up. OH! By the way, since I am editing all the chapters since they are rough drafts (Yes, I know, all of them are without revision and editing) you might want to check back and reread them in the future. **

**Other than that, I think I am done talking! Thank you so so much for supporting me, and I hope to start working on Part II soon!**

**One thing that I ask you to do is review. I need feedback, and hell, write me a review if you see any grammar errors. The more help the better the story will be!**

**Love you all!**

**Abby **


	22. Timeline and Character Summaries

**Timeline for Vengeance is Mine:**

Harold is born- January 1981

Harold killed his father- 2003

Harold decides to get out of the trade- July 2010

Harold gets shot by Moran- August 28th, 2010

Harold Wakes up in hospital- August 31st, 2010

Julianne Walker kidnapped- October 23rd, 2011

Found dead- October 30th, 2011

Moran finds Harold and announces that Moriarty was a fake- March 2012

Harold's life is reinvented- January 2013

(Planning for Sherlock's trap nine months)- September 2013

Sherlock gets the case- November 2nd, 2013

Harold is killed- November 10th, 2013

Epilogue- November 18th, 2013

**Characters:**

**BBC:** Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, Moriarty (Introduces himself to Julianne, giving her the famous drug shipping gang, The Pythons, to make a booming business from it.)

**Own: **

Harold Wilston (Ex-drug "accountant", manipulated by Julianne to get information on how to run a gang, believes that Sherlock invented Moriarty, introduces Sherlock to the case.)

Julianne Walker (Half-sister to James Moriarty)

Liam Walker (Father, not biological. Was paid off by Moran bc he knew Julianne was still alive. Owns a shredding company, somewhat corrupt.)

Theresa Walker/Lowell (Mother, not biological. Divorced from Liam)

James Rogers (Teacher/Loyal Companion to Julianne)

Ethan Rogers (James's brother with a family, not as close with brother as he thinks)

Charles Baker (Julianne's "boyfriend", was used by Julianne to get closer to the Pythons, accused of hiring Moriarty to kill Julianne. Was hired by Moran to act out a scene, so they could kidnap Sherlock.)

Officer Daniels (Undercover cop at Liam Walker's crime scene, is in the Pythons for his job. Gets deep into the organization)

Toby Kirth (Shady book store owner that tells a story of Moriarty and the location of a certain hide out to the Pythons.)

Sebastian Moran (Right Hand follower to Julianne, first introduced as a cabbie. Main man that manipulates Harold to kill Sherlock Holmes.) /Not an original character of mine/


End file.
